My Sweet Southern Dixie
by Hannah Emily Bunker
Summary: "It was the story to end all stories." Racetrack Higgins' was never a fan of change, but fate had different ideas. Two girls came into his life and drastically changed his world. Complete redo of the original story.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, I'm back. After eight years, a high school degree, and a renewed vigor for Newsies, I decided to scrap the old one and make a new, better one.**

 **God I missed this fandom.**

 **Reviews make me better. Thanks, fam.**

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"Extra! Extra! Man cooked in motor car accident. Page three!" Racetrack Higgins yelled from his street corner. Mornings in New York were busy, but today was pretty slow. It was a Monday, the day of the week everyone dreaded. School was back in session which meant the number of newsies dwindled from the summer months. David and Les were among those few newsies who attended school in the mornings, so there were less Manhattan newsies on the streets than, per say, Brooklyn.

A man came up to Racetrack and bought a paper on his way to work, apparently intrigued by the grisly headline. The dark haired boy stuck the penny in his pocket, along with the other forty-five pennies that made their nest in his pants pockets. He needed to sell five more papes, and he was done for the day. He would hitch a ride on the back of a carriage or a trolley to Sheepshead Bay and, depending on the horses, either blow or double his earnings for the day.

Racetrack went over the agenda in his head and smiled. He was free to do as he pleased. He had no family to speak of to nag him to do chores or homework. He didn't have a girl that would complain about her day and how she didn't like his gambling habits. Racetrack wasn't a stupid boy; he knew he had a problem. But what brought him back was the way he felt like he was floating on air after his horse won. He harbored no resentment for David, who had a family to go home to, or Jack, who was going steady with Plum. If it didn't affect him personally, he didn't give a rat's ass.

"Excuse me," a small voice broke his thoughts. Racetrack looked down to see a small girl, no more than nine. Her hair was in two plaits, with a blue ribbon to hold them in their place. She looked up at him with the biggest hazel eyes he'd ever seen. For some reason or another, they struck a chord with him, like he had seen them somewhere before. Racetrack immediately shook the ridiculous idea from his head.

"How much is a paper?" She looked over her shoulder and then back at him again. "Come on! How much is it?"

 _"Well aren't you the patient one."_ He thought bitterly.

"Penny a pape." He replied. He watched as the little girl looked over her shoulder, then dug her little hand into her pinafore to dig out a penny.

"Are you being followed, kid?" He said in a low voice, just in case anyone else was listening. She looked up at him again with her doe-like eyes, shook her head, and continued to dig for a penny. Racetrack was beginning to get impatient. The morning races would be starting at ten, and he didn't want to be late making his bets. He pulled out his, or rather his father's pocket watch, to check the time.

 _"Hmm."_ He thought to himself. _"Almost half past nine."_

"Thief!" Racetrack froze but then relaxed, quickly realizing that part of his life was long over. The little girl in front of him, however, stayed frozen. Racetrack, with his pocket watch still out, looked to the owner of the voice. A blonde girl, about his age or older, was running towards the pigtailed girl in front of him. As she ran, time seemed to slow down. The blonde girl looked like a drawing out of a fashion caricature or a model for one of the new department stores in town. Her honey blonde hair seemed to be made of gold, and her skin was clear as a summer sky. His heart skipped a beat and melted all at the same time. Suddenly, the sound of tearing fabric broke his thoughts as the little girl ran off with his father's pocket watch.

"Hey! Come back 'ere!" He sprinted after the girl. "That doesn't belong to you, ya bum." God! How could he have been such a dunce! He knew better than to be distracted by girls, especially when there were pickpockets throughout New York City.

 _"When I get my hands on her, she'll be a pile of nothin'."_ He thought angrily. That pocket watch was the last memento he had of his father's. He vaguely remembered the man, since he split after his baby sister was born. All he knew was that his father was Irish and left Racetrack his gold pocket watch with the Higgins family crest on the outer shell. That pocket watch stayed with him after his apartment burned down with his mother and sister inside and through his time in The Refuge.

Racetrack continued to chase the dark haired girl through the crowded marketplace. He pushed his way through the throngs of cooks and housewives that filled the streets, not caring if he stepped on a few toes here and there. He squeezed his way out until he lost sight of the pickpocketing girl. He threw his cap down on the ground and cursed.

"Damn it!" He tucked one thumb in the hem of his pants, and his other hand reached for the cigar in his breast pocket. He pulled a match from his pocket, scratched it against the building beside him, and lit the cigar. The strong taste of tobacco filled his senses and calmed his nerves a bit. He picked up his hat and walked down the street towards the Brooklyn. He decided he would call it a day and head over to the tracks.

But first, he needed to take a leak.

Race looked over his shoulder, to make sure he wouldn't get jumped, and headed into the dark alleyway. He walked over to a secluded part of the alley, unbuttoned his pants, and sweet relief washed over him.

"Man! That coffee just goes right through ya." He mumbled, his cigar still in his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a dark shadow sitting on some boxes. He made himself presentable and turned his hair towards the blur. It was the pickpocket girl! She seemed to be inspecting his father's pocket watch, her little fingers gingerly traced the engravings. Race stomped over to where she was sitting and grabbed the pocket watch out of her little hands.

"Hey! That's mine!" She cried.

"Oh, really? 'Cause last time I checked youse was the one who took it from _my_ hand." He stuffed his most prized possession in his breast pocket.

"Nuh uh!" She crossed her arms defiantly. " _You_ must have stolen it from my father!"

"Oh yeah, girlie?" He challenged her, taking a puff of his cigar and blowing it in her face. "What's your proof? Because I've had this since I was a boy." The little pickpocket coughed and waved the smoke out of her face.

"Because- "She wheezed. "It has my father's name on it, and it has his family crest on the front." Racetrack raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"What does your family crest look like?"

"It has a knight's helmet with three rooks underneath it. And my father's name was Thomas Higgins." Racetrack scoffed and turned his back on the girl. She was right. That was the Higgins family crest. And his father's name was Thomas Higgins.

But those were two very common Irish names and probably thousands of Thomas Higgins' in New York City.

"You're lyin' kid. You probably looked at the engraving while I'se was taking a piss." Racetrack began to walk away, miffed that he was probably going to miss placing his bets. He heard the thump of two feet landing on the ground.

"My Nonno said that even though my father was a dirty Mick, Thomas Higgins was an honest man! And that's the only thing I have left to remember my family by." Racetrack turned to face the brave little pickpocket.

"Look, kid, I used to be in your position, okay?" He took a puff from his cigar. "I used to pickpockets and make up ridiculous stories after my ma and sister died. It's not a good life. Go find a factory to work in. You might lose a finger, but at least they'll feed you."

"I lost my brother and mother when I was three." She croaked. This made Racetrack stop in his tracks. That's how old—no, it couldn't be. He turned to face her, her hazel eyes filling with tears.

"How old are you?" He shakily pointed his cigar at her. His mother and Francesca were supposed to be dead.

"Eleven. How old are you?" This couldn't be happening. Racetrack felt his heart drop into his stomach.

"S-sixteen."

"There you are!" An irritated voice interrupted the moment. It was that blonde girl that was chasing the pickpocket before. Pieces of her hair were falling out of her braid, and her cheeks were flushed from running.

"Now I have chased you all over kingdom come for that coin purse of mine, and you will give it back or else I'll..I'll.." The little pickpocket looked at coin purse girl with a bored expression.

"You'll what?" The pickpocket challenged. "Beat me up? Because you look like you couldn't hurt a fly." The blonde girl strained to talk like she wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't leave her lips.

"I haven't thought that far ahead yet, lil' missy." She drawled.

 _"Oh, so you have an accent."_ Racetrack thought amusingly. Southern coin purse girl looked at Racetrack for help.

"Well? Aren't you going to help me?" She asked, exasperated. Racetrack leaned on the brick building behind him and inhaled his cigar.

"Nah, I'm pretty amused at how you're handling it, though. What would you call it, the Rebel approach, eh doll?" Southern girl's eyes grew as wide as saucers, her green eyes seemed to burst into flames. She marched over to Racetrack and looked him in the eyes.

"Now look here, _sir_. I have lost my favorite hat, had my coin purse stolen with my lunch money in it, and now I'm probably late to work, so I do not have time to mess around with your tough, city boy act right now. And I do have a name, thank you very much. It's Ca—" She stopped herself and took a breath. "It's Dixie."


	2. Chapter 2

**Yay! Thanks for reading this far! I really appreciate it!**

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This girl was right up in his face and, boy, was she mad.

"Alright look, lady. I'm really sorry for stealing your coin purse, okay?" The little girl piped up. "My name's Frannie, and that's my brother, Anthony." Race looked at Frannie like she had two heads. He never told her his name. Frannie raised her eyebrows, signaling the older boy to play along.

"Yeah. Frannie, well, she's got a screw loose if you know what I mean." Racetrack stepped around Dixie and inhaled his cigar. "Ever since our parent's died, she's been channeling that grief by pickpocketing." He walked over to Frannie, if that was even her real name, and rested his elbow on her head. Frannie glared up at him, clearly not amused with his explanation.

"Well, come on now, lil sister. Give the nice lady back her coin purse." Frannie shook Racetrack's elbow off of her head and dug out the lilac coin purse of Dixie's. She walked over to the blonde and stuck the coin purse out impetuously.

"And what do we say?" Racetrack prompted, clearly enjoying bossing the little pickpocket around. Frannie inwardly rolled her eyes.

"I'm sorry for stealing your coin purse." She said half-heartedly. To Racetrack's surprise, Dixie's face softened, and she smiled, gently taking her coin purse from Frannie's little hands. Racetrack's heart was melting and skipping beats again. God, she was beautiful.

"You are most certainly forgiven." She drawled. "I understand how hard it is to lose your parents." She cooed. Frannie gave a small smile and shifted her eyes to the ground. Racetrack looked at his pocket watch and outwardly groaned. He missed the morning bets, and the races would be starting in less than five minutes.

"Is everything alright, brother?" Frannie asked a little too sweetly.

"Oh, dear me. You're oh-so-very late for school, sister. I should be taking you back." He mocked. Frannie glared at her fake older brother but realized she was in the middle of a con and perked up.

"Uh, right! Yes. I really should be going." She tried running past Racetrack, but the older boy grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face Dixie. The latter shifted uncomfortably and smiled awkwardly at the fake siblings. Racetrack sensed her discomfort and hoped she wasn't getting suspicious.

"Well doll, it's been swell. See ya around." He led Frannie by the shoulders and walked out of the alley, leaving the Southerner alone in the alley.

"Hey! Wait!" Dixie called and caught up with the duo. "Where's your school? If it's close to my job, I'd love to walk with Y'all." Racetrack held back a snicker. He'd heard stories from old Civil War vets about how people in the south talk slower and say 'y'all' a lot.

"I go to P.S. 121. It's a little way away", Frannie twiddled her thumbs and bit her lip. She was telling the truth, for once, hoping Dixie would get the message and leave her alone. "And I'd hate for you to walk in the opposite direction of your job."

"Oh! That's the little gray building with the statue of the eagle out front! My bakery is a couple blocks after that." Frannie smiled uncomfortably. "Well, come on now. No time to dilly-dally!" Dixie marched ahead like she was leading a small army into battle. Racetrack eyed Frannie, taking the cigar from his lips.

"Alright, kid." He whispered harshly, "How'd you know my name?" Frannie looked up at the dark-haired newsie impatiently.

"That was the name of my brother who died. Now shush! Or she'll catch on, stupid." Frannie whispered back.

"No offense, kid, but I don't think you're telling the whole truth. My sister was three when she died. Elaborate how a three-year-old survives a fire?" Frannie shushed him again and looked forward. "Since when do you go to school? I thought you were a street kid."

"Since when do _you_ go to school?" She shot back. "My grandparents make me go. Say it's supposed to make me a better citizen, or something." Racetrack took a puff of his cigar, hoping that this kid wouldn't try and bring him home like a lost puppy. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to go school by her, hopefully not his, grandparents. He didn't need a formal education. He'd seen Davey's homework before. Who needed calculus anyways?

"So, Anthony. Do you like school?" Dixie called back, her honey blonde braid swinging behind her. Racetrack took a minute to answer, not used to being called Anthony.

"Uh, I don't really go to school. No need really." Dixie looked back at him skeptically.

"Why not?" She drawled, her green eyes piercing through him.

"'Cause I don't need to."

"Then why does Frannie go to school?" She inquired. That was a tough one. Frannie looked up at him anxiously. They were caught.

"Because I believes the children of today are the future of tomorrow." He said sarcastically. Frannie rolled her eyes. Her grandparents said the exact same thing.

" _Do all old people say stupid stuff like that?"_ She thought.

The trio walked in silence the rest of the way, Racetrack occasionally stopping to sell a paper or two, hoping to lose the girls who made him miss the races. Unfortunately for him, Dixie was smarter than she appeared and would grab him by the collar of his shirt when she caught him sneaking off.

After what seemed like hours, they reached the school. It wasn't the prettiest building, but it wasn't the ugliest either.

"Alright little sister, go in and learn things." Frannie rolled her eyes and sauntered into the school. Racetrack was glad to be rid of her. Deep down, however, he hoped that she really was his little sister. The ages matched up; she was eleven, and he was sixteen. She even looked a little like him. She had that pointed upper lip and dark, unruly hair. But Race knew not to get his hopes up. Life wasn't some fairy tale where siblings are found after being apart. After the door had closed after Frannie, Racetrack walked towards Brooklyn. If he was lucky, he could still catch the afternoon races.

"Hey!" Damn. He forgot about Dixie. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Sheepshead Bay. If youse hadn't interrupted me earlier, I would have placed my bets thirty minutes ago." Dixie scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"So this is my fault?" She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him with those dangerous green eyes of hers. "Well if you had been a better brother and watched your sister— "

"Whoa, whoa. You don't know nothing about me, so get down off your high horse." He looked at his cigar, which had gone from a long roll to a stump, and threw it on the ground. He gave one last look at the stupefied blonde and walked away. Dixie threw her hands in the air and let out a sharp laugh.

"Is this how you people treat each other? Do you just lack empathy for one another?" Race turned on his heel and started towards the now enraged young lady.

"What do you mean by that? You people?" He accused.

"We do things differently down South. We actually care about our fellow man." She replied defiantly. She was mouthy, that's for sure.

"Bullshit. Youse shits on people who don't have the same skin color as you do. I knows all about your Jim Crow laws. I reads the paper." Racetrack walked towards the defiant blonde. One of the boys, Boatman, had family from the South and his stories were grisly, to say the least.

"Like you said, Anthony." Dixie sneered. "Don't go thinking you know everything." And with that, she stormed in the opposite direction, hopefully towards her bakery.

"Yeah! Good riddance to you too!" He shouted after her. Boy, was he glad to be rid of her? Women were messy creatures. Anything you say could set them off. Sarah once threw a dirty pair of knickers at Davey because of some joke he made. Plum was probably the worst; she could insult you into your grave.

"Women. Who needs 'em." He muttered. Race took one look at the red building and laughed bitterly.

"Hey!" Race turned towards the voice, and his face fell. Frannie ran over to him from the entrance of the building. He couldn't get a break today, could he?

"I thought you was in school?" Frannie bounced on the balls of her feet happily.

"I was! But the teacher didn't let me in because I didn't have my books with me. That's okay! I wasn't planning on going anyways!" She bounced, smiling like she'd won the lottery.

"Well, you can't hang around me. I'se got plans."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm going to Brooklyn." He muttered, past the point of annoyance. "You ever heard of Sheepshead, kid?" Frannie shook her head. "I go and bet on the horses."

"Why?"

"Cause it's fun."

"That doesn't _sound_ very fun." Racetrack stopped and glared at the girl.

"Here's the deal: if you stop talking and asking me questions, I'll let you tag along. But as soon as I hear a peep outta you I'm pushing you off the Brooklyn bridge. " Frannie nodded and flattened her lips. "Good." Racetrack looked at the oncoming traffic and noticed a trolley coming their way. "Now on the count of three, we're going to jump on the back of that trolley." Frannie grabbed his hand and held it tight.

"One." The trolley was coming along fast.

"Two." Race bent his knees and reached his arm out.

"Three!" He and Frannie jumped. Race caught the railing of the trolley, and the two kids stepped onto the balcony.


	3. Chapter 3

**Read and Review! Thanks y'all!**

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The duo arrived at Sheepshead just in time for the next round of bets to start. Frannie's senses were overwhelmed by the smell of horse manure, sawdust, and cigars. People were shouting left and right. Racetrack would occasionally pull her by her pinafore if she didn't keep up. She wanted to protest, but she also didn't want him to go through with his threat.

Racetrack, on the other hand, was focused on winning. He was stressed out and already went for the emergency cigarettes in his pant pocket. Many times, he was tempted to leave Frannie in Brooklyn, but against his better judgment, he didn't. Brooklyn wasn't the safest place for an unaccompanied lady, especially one Frannie's age. The latter was starting at the red, white, and blue banners by the bleachers and watching the jockeys warm up their horses. Racetrack rolled his eyes impatiently and tugged her to the betting booths. While they waited, Racetrack was able to slip a cigar from an unsuspecting business man's pocket and put it to his lips. Frannie scrunched her nose in disgust. Nonno didn't smoke cigars; he said it was a nasty habit. Eventually, it was Race and Frannie's turn to place their bets.

"'Ey, Race." Marcus greeted him. Marcus was one the first bookies at Sheepshead. He was a leathery looking old man. His eyes were so wrinkled; Racetrack thought little people were living in the folds. "Who's the girl?" Racetrack looked at the Wonderstruck Frannie, who was trying to get an eye on a black Thoroughbred from where she was standing.

"She's a friend of mine." He replied curtly, handing Marcus ten cents. "Ten cents on Mama's Boy."

"Shouldn't she be in school?" He grumbled, taking Race's money.

"Nah, she can get a better education here than some damn school." Marcus harrumphed, handing Racetrack a piece of paper with his betting number on it.

"Yeah, and she'll turn out just like you." He shot at the younger boy. Race smiled sardonically at him and dragged Frannie off to the stables.

"Asshole." He muttered. He looked at Frannie, who was still taking in the sights and sounds of Sheepshead Bay. "Alright, I'll allow you to speak as long as youse don't ask any dumb-."

"Okay. When are we going to watch the races?" She interrupted him. Racetrack sighed tiredly.

"In a little bit. I'se got some friends that work in the stables." He took a puff of his cigar and eyed his surroundings. A scraggly looking man was leering at Frannie, as well as some higher class people. Race felt a shiver down his spine and guided the small girl away from the oglers. "Let's bounce." He murmured through his cigar. "There are some real creeps here."

"Can I ask you a question, Anthony? About Ma and Pa?" Racetrack turned to her.

"If youse gonna tag along, you gotta call me Racetrack. No one's called me Anthony since I broke out of The Refuge." Frannie's eyes went wide.

"What's that?"

"It's a prison for kids, especially pickpockets." He emphasized the part about pickpockets. Frannie bowed her head.

"I am sorry." She whined. Racetrack hummed, not believing her for a second. "But if I didn't, I would have gotten a beating from these girls at school! They told me if I could bring them back some loot I could join their gang!"

"Kid, you got no business joining a gang. Besides, if you're going to make up an excuse, at least make it a decent one."

"But it's true!"

"Doesn't matter." He walked on, getting tired of the conversation.

"Well, I want to know everything about you. You _are_ my brother after all." Racetrack ignored her. Sheepshead Bay was his happy place, and he wasn't going to ruin it by talking about the subject of family. "Besides, you didn't answer my question!"

"Come on. I want to get a look at the horses before the races start." He grumbled.

The two watched the races in silence. Much to Race's luck, Mama's Boy won the next two races, turning Race's ten cents into five dollars. Frannie enjoyed the races too, but not because of the money Racetrack won. She enjoyed petting the horses and listening to Racetrack talk to some of the jockeys and other newsboys from Brooklyn and Coney Island. From listening to Racetrack talk, he seemed to be very smart. He had a way about gambling and knowing his favorite horse's strengths and weaknesses.

She also got an ample amount of attention from the jockeys, who thought she looked like a porcelain doll. Racetrack rolled his eyes, knowing the attention would go to her head. She'd never been complimented like that before. Nonno and Nonna still called her 'Bambina' or 'Piccola Mia,' a baby. She knew she was small for her age and knew it gave the other kids at school an advantage over her.

"Youse hungry, kid?" Racetrack broke her thoughts. "I'd thought I'd reward you for being quiet." Frannie shrugged. She was hungry, only having porridge for breakfast and skipping lunch to go to Sheepshead with Racetrack.

"I guess. Nonno and Nonna usually make a big dinner with the neighbors." Racetrack pulled out a cigar he stole off of an unsuspecting Coney Island newsie and lit it.

"Would it be a long shot to guess that your folks are Italian?"

"Yeah, but so are you." She added. Racetrack blew smoke out of his mouth.

"You're not going to let this go are you?" Frannie shook her head.

"You ever get a gut feeling, Racetrack?" She looked up at him with those big hazel eyes. He nodded, recalling his luck with Mama's Boy. "I'm positive you're my brother! You look like the picture Nonno has of Ma and me and my brother. You even look like Nonno when he was a boy, except your hair gets redder in the sun, like mine."

"Your gramps has a picture of me?" Frannie nodded. "I'd like to meet this guy." Frannie's eyes lit up.

"Does this mean you're going to stay?" She gasped. Racetrack scoffed.

"God, no. I just want to see if you're telling the truth or not." Frannie's face fell in disappointment. Racetrack sighed in defeat. He didn't mean to be so harsh.

"Hey, I'll buy you some ginger snaps if you give me a smile." Frannie gave the older boy a toothy grin in hopes of ginger snaps. Her smile was infectious; it could even make Skittery smile if they met.

"Come on; I know a good bakery here in town."

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"Gia, my darling!" Racetrack swung open the door to the bakery. A young woman, no older than Racetrack was behind the counter. She had dark, unruly raven hair that was tied back with a brown ribbon. Her brown eyes were sharp and could cut you like a knife.

"Well, if it ain't my precious little Racetrack." She came around the counter and embraced the shorter boy. "Who's this? She's a little young for you ain't she?" She referred to Frannie, who obstinately crossed her arms.

"Don't be stupid, Gia. It's—," He looked at Frannie, whose arms were still crossed and looked up at the older boy impatiently. "Can I talk with youse in the back?"

"What about me?" Frannie cried. Racetrack rolled his eyes and placed a bit in her hand.

"Here's twenty-five cents. Give me the change when you picked out what youse want." He pulled Gia behind the counter to a small kitchen. Gia signaled to a short, redheaded girl to help Frannie pick out her sweets.

"So who was that, Race?"

"I think she's my sister." He walked into the storeroom and took a puff of his cigar. Gia craned her neck to look at the small girl, who was practically salivating over a tray of fresh blondies.

"Holy Mary Mother of God." She whispered as she crossed herself. "I thought Francesca died."

"Yeah, so did I. But the little rat pickpocketed my father's pocket watch this morning and said her last name was Higgins too."

"Youse don't believe her do you?" She moved a bag of flour off of a crate and sat cross-legged on top of it.

"I don't know! A lot of what she says makes a whole lotta sense."

"Like…"

"She's eleven. Francesca supposedly died when I was eight."

"What does that have to do anything?"

"There's a five-year age difference! And, she said her grandfather calls her father a mick. My father was Irish, Gina!"

"There's a lotta tension between the Italians and the Irish here."

"But her name's Frannie! That's probably short for Francesca. And she knew my real name, not my street name without me telling her."

"Racetrack!" Gina got up and held his shoulders. The younger boy was shaking out of excitement and anxiousness. "You're getting yourself worked up. Have you thought about the possibility that she's lying?"

"Yeah." He took a puff of his cigar and shook himself from her grip. "Yeah, I have. But look at us side-to-side There's a definite family resemblance!" Gia pulled him in for a hug and sighed.

"I don't want you getting hurt, Anthony. That's all."

"I know."

A loud shriek interrupted the tense moment, almost causing Racetrack to drop his cigar. Gia rolled her eyes and stormed towards the front of the bakery. Racetrack followed out of curiosity.

"Dixie! What the hell do you think you're doin'?" Racetrack froze.

"Not this fuckin' broad again." He muttered.


	4. Chapter 4

**I mean, what did you expect?**

 **You know what to do ;)**

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"For God's sake Dixie what are you doin'?" Gia shouted. Racetrack followed the older girl into the front where Dixie, the obnoxious blonde who too fell victim to Frannie's pickpocketing, was perched on the counter with a broom over her shoulder, aimed and ready to strike at Frannie. The redhead who was helping Frannie earlier was hiding in a corner.

"This heathen stole my coin purse this morning!"

"I said I was sorry and I gave it back you twit!"

"But you still stole it!" Gia rolled her eyes at Dixie's inherent insanity.

"Were you trying to shoo her with that broom?"

"That's what we had to do when the barn cats got into the house!" Racetrack snorted at how ridiculous she sounded. "Besides, how do you know she wasn't trying to steal some sweets, huh?"

"Because Racetrack is a friend of mine and she paid me in advance." Gia stormed over the angry blonde and snatched the broom from her hand. "Now get down from there! You've probably scared away all of our customers by now."

Dixie climbed down from the counter in defeat. Racetrack strode over to the shorter girl and grabbed her chin to check for any scratches.

"Youse okay, kid? Did she scratch you?"

"I'm fine! Geez Race, you're worse than my Nonna." Racetrack sighed in relief.

"What's your problem?" He turned to Dixie.

"Excuse me?" Dixie's head snapped towards Racetrack.

"Yeah, doll face. You."

"What about me? You and your sinful sister are the ones who keep coming back like a bad cold!"

"Ooh, sinful sister. How poetic doll face."

"Stop calling me doll face! It's demeaning!"

"Hey, that's the nicest thing that describes you right now."

"Racetrack," Gia warned.

"You, sir, are a rude, tactless, slimy boy!"

"Dixie!" Gia snapped.

"Youse a tight-assed, righteous, hoity-toity bitch!"

"I wish I'd never walked with you to that schoolhouse. You're nothing but a liar and a lowlife."

"First of all, youse invited yourself. I never wanted you to come along because I didn't want the stench of hoity-toity following me when I sold me papes."

"You can't even use proper English."

"Neither can you! You say stupid shit like 'y'all.' What does that even mean?"

"Would the both of you SHUT UP!" The arguing couple froze and looked at a, very annoyed, Gia. Frannie stood nonchalantly to the side and nibbled on a gingersnap.

"Dixie. Kitchen. Now!" Dixie gave Racetrack one last glare before sulking to the kitchen.

"Racetrack Higgins, you know better than to lose your temper like that." Gia scolded.

"She started it! She coulda blinded Frannie or somethin'!"

"But you could have walked away like a gentleman." Racetrack scoffed and grabbed Frannie by the shoulders.

"You know damn well that I ain't no gentleman, Gia." And with that, he and Frannie left the bakery.

The walk back to Frannie's apartment was a silent one. Frannie continued to nibble on her sweets while Racetrack stared angrily at the ground. Why did Gia have to take that broad's side? Especially after how she reacted to seeing Frannie. A small part of him was surprised that he was acting so sickeningly maternal, but he pushed it aside. He would've done the same thing for Les or even Snipeshooter for that matter.

"Do ya think you'll stay for dinner?" Frannie broke his thoughts. Bits of gingersnap fell out of her mouth as she spoke.

"'m not sure."

"You ain't mad at me are you?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"I guess I kind of ruined your day. You did have plans to do your paper thing and your gambling."

"Don't be so dramatic, kid. Youse ain't that bad."

"What about Dixie?"

"Mention that broad again, and I'll push you in the street." Frannie scoffed and skipped ahead of the grouchy older boy.

"Yeah right, Racetrack. You like me too much to do that." She stuffed another cookie in her mouth. "I'm adorable."

"Yeah, youse adorable with your mouth filled with food. That's real attractive, Fran." Racetrack smirked at the younger girl. She was alright, even if she was annoying as hell. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as Frannie babbled on about how charming she was.

"Piccola mia!" A stout older woman rushed towards the two. "Where have you been! Mrs. Bianchi said you didn't come home with Salvadore!" Race checked his pocket watch for the time.

"Shit." He thought. It was almost six-thirty. Hopefully, Jack hadn't sent out a search party looking for him.

"Well, teacher didn't let me into class today because I didn't have my books, so I went to the races instead with— "

"You did WHAT?" The older woman held a hand to her chest. "Mary Francesca Higgins, you go inside right now!" She grabbed Frannie by the arm and pushed her towards the door. Frannie looked pitifully back at Racetrack and dragged herself into the shop.

" _Mary Francesca Higgins."_ He thought stupefied. His mother would call his sister Mary Francesca when she put her to bed.

Racetrack noticed the shop beside him. Its paint was coming off of the wood of the shop, but it contrasted against the red brick of the building. He vividly remembered this shop and was overcome with a sense of déjà vu.

"And you." The woman pointed a fat finger towards Racetrack. "How dare you take advantage of my granddaughter. She's just a baby!" Racetrack unintentionally ignored her, studying the features of the shop. Yes, he remembered his mother worked at his grandfather's bookstore after his father left. He would spend his days in his grandparent's apartment while his mother worked and would occasionally swipe a dime novel while no one was looking. His eyes searched for the bookshop's dingy sign, hoping to confirm his suspicions.

"Young man! Did you even hear what I said?" The woman grabbed Race's shoulder and turned him towards her. Racetrack looked at the older woman surprised. "You should—" She trailed off. "Anthony?"

Racetrack stepped back and removed his cap from his head.

"Yeah, but most people call me Racetrack."

"What-What's your last name, bambino? The ones your parents had?"

"Doesn't matter." He inched back. "I-I need to go." And he ran off in the opposite direction towards the Manhattan Lodge.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks so much to everyone who's made it this far! It really means a lot that some one out there has read it!**

 **Read and Review :)**

* * *

"MASSIVE DELAYS BEFORE ZOO UNVEILING." People glanced at the newsboy but passed by like he didn't exist. Racetrack scolded himself. Was that the best headline he could come up with?

"EXTRA EXTRA! GOVERNER ROOSEVELT IN CAHOOTS WITH MCKINLEY!" This got people's attention. Before he knew it, he was running out of papers and his pockets was getting heavier.

The bitter cold ran through his jacket, causing the boy to shiver. It wasn't the coldest he'd been, but he knew it would get worse as the month progressed. The weather wasn't the only thing getting worse: Racetrack noticed his luck was running short too. He started losing money at the races and at poker games with the boys. The paid no mind to his losing streak, a lot of them were just happy to make a couple of cents. Jack had noticed, but Racetrack played it off like it was nothing.

But it wasn't nothing.

He probably found his family, and he deserted them. He could've had a hot meal every morning and a warm bed every night. He shook the thought from his head, knowing it would bring him down.

"Hey, Racetrack!" Racetrack's ears perked up to see Sarah and that Dixie broad from Gia's bakery. "How's it goin'?" She had a dull, red shawl wrapped around her torso and her long, dark hair was fell to her shoulders.

"Oh. Hey, Sarah." Sarah Jacobs was alright. She had a brief relationship with Jack, but the two decided to stay friends. Sarah, like Plum, was considered an ally of the newsies. Last he heard, she moved out of her parent's home and lived in an all girl's boarding house. "Who's your friend?" He asked, knowing all too well who her companion was.

"This is Dixie Davis. She—."

"We've met before." Dixie interrupted coldly. "He, um, helped me with a pickpocket some time back." Her voice became quiet. Sarah's mouth made an 'o' shape and turned back to Race.

"Anyways, Dixie and I live in the same boarding house. I just got a job at her bakery too." She beamed.

"Good for you, Jacobs." Race returned her smile. "Gia and I go way back." He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, his papes tucked underneath his arm.

"Why haven't you come in then?" She asked, digging for a penny. Racetrack looked at Dixie and pressed his lips together.

"It's a long story." There was a silence between the three. "So, are you here for small talk or are youse lovely ladies gonna buy a pape?" Sarah glared at him playfully and handed the shorter boy a penny.

"Still impatient as ever." Sarah shook her head. Racetrack smirked and gave her a newspaper. She gently took the paper and tucked it in the hem of her skirt.

"You go ahead, darlin'," Dixie drawled quietly. "I'll catch up." Sarah eyed her cautiously, nodded, and walked off. Dixie turned towards Racetrack and exhaled.

"I-I wanted to apologize for the last time we saw each other and the, um, things I might have said." She tilted her chin up to give her some sort of height over the Italian boy.

"Might have said?" Racetrack scoffed. "It's what you did too, Daisy."

"It's Dixie."

"Whatever." He dug around his pocket for a cigarette. "You coulda blinded Fr-" He stopped himself. "That girl." He gave up his search for a cigarette and kept his hand in the warmth of his pants pocket. Dixie glanced away from him and pursed her lips.

"You're right." She laughed sharply, flattening her skirts. "Gia said the exact same thing." An awkward pause hung between the two teenagers as passersby walked around them.

"I didn't mean what I said, though. I was just angry and dog-tired from that morning. I just get so worked up sometimes." She chuckled awkwardly. Racetrack smirked.

"Yeah, New York's pretty different from the South. I mean, I can only assume. I'se hasn't been outside of New York." Racetrack bit his lip. He wasn't too good at apologies. He and the other guys would have words, but they'd cool down and shake hands on it. None of this small talk.

"I guess I'se sorry for what I said too." Dixie smiled warmly. Racetrack's heart skipped a beat. He'd forgotten how wonderful her smile was. "Would you like to buy a pape, miss?" He tipped his hat playfully. Dixie giggled and nodded.

"How's Gia been? I'se hasn't seen her since, well, you know." He dug out a paper for her.

"Oh, she's been good. She's been going with some China man for some time." She answered. Racetrack chuckled. Swifty had his eyes on the brunette for some time now. He'd help Gia unload bags of flour from the market and find something to fix in the bakery.

It was sickening.

"Yeah, Swifty. He bunks with the rest of us newsies in Manhattan." He pulled out the two newspapers and handed them to Dixie. "Good. He finally got the nerve to ask her out."

"How's your sister?" She dropped a penny into Racetrack's palm, which was chapped from the cold. He bit his lip uncomfortably. He hadn't seen Frannie in two months, and he wasn't sure how she'd react to seeing him again.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" She asked incredulously. "She's your sister after all!"

"Look, Daisy- "

"It's Dixie."

"Dixie. Fine. It's complicated." He handed her the papers, hoping she'd leave already. She was a beautiful gal, but damn was she nosy. "You wouldn't understand, being from the sticks and all."

"Please, sugar. I invented complicated." Dixie looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. "And I'm from Atlanta. It's the Empire City of the South." Racetrack laughed sharply and smirked at the blonde.

"Yeah right. New York is where it's at, doll. 'Sides, I can't see you havin' anything to do with complicated." Dixie folded the papers and tucked them under her arm.

"Don't judge a paper based on the headline, Racehorse." She glanced at him playfully and turned on her heel, her brown skirt tickling the back of her ankles. Racetrack was stupefied by her response and her teasing glance. He knew Dixie had a spark, but he didn't expect her to have an ounce of wit in her.

"It's Racetrack!" He called after her after she made her way to the bakery. She waved him off nonchalantly and disappeared into the crowd.

A couple of hours later, Racetrack still had about ten newspapers left. He mentally scolded himself for his lack of focus. He needed the money to pay rent or else he'd have to sleep on the streets. He sighed, his breath hanging in the cold November air. He decided to hitch a ride to Sheepshead, maybe bet on one of the horses.

As he walked to Brooklyn, "My Wild Irish Rose" played in the distance. He liked the tune. Medda would occasionally sing it when he and the other Manhattan boys paid a visit to Irving Hall. His mind began to wander back to September and his decision to walk away from his grandfather's shop. He was constantly beating himself up about it. After he had run away from the shop, he went straight to the lodge to gamble away the rest of his winnings from that day. He also couldn't stop thinking about Dixie, the golden haired beauty that made him want to tear his hair out and tear her corset open at the same time. A small part of him wanted to go the Gia's and see Dixie again. Another part of him wanted to go back to his grandfather's shop and introduce himself. Or re-introduce himself.

But what if he was wrong?

What if they didn't recognize him? What if Francesca really died in that fire and he truly was an orphan. He was scared of the rejection that would come and relive the heartbreak of losing Francesca and his mother all over again.

But at the same time, he was happy with the way his life was. He loved the freedom that came with being a newsie. He loved being able to go to Sheepshead and Irving Hall on a Friday night. If he went to that shop or the bakery, he could kiss those days goodbye. If he asked Dixie out, she'd want him to stay in. If he went to the shop, he'd have to go to school.

A cold wind whipped Racetrack's face. He exhaled, his breath hanging in the air. He was at a crossroads in his life. Stay comfortable where he was or put his best foot forward towards the future. He knew he had a big decision to make.

But that decision would have to wait. Sheepshead Bay was calling his name, and he had bets to place.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for everyone who's reviewed! Remember to keep reading and following the story! And Happy Ides of March!**

"Hey there, Banshee." Racetrack cooed as he patted a lean, dapple gray mare on the muzzle. "Youse gonna win me some money? Huh?" Banshee snorted, her eyes closing in relaxation as the Italian boy petted her.

"Well, I can't promise you nothin', Race." Someone answered. Racetrack smirked.

"You been slackin' off again, Mikey-Boy?" Michael Allen was a dashing young jockey with raven hair and icy blue eyes who spent his time was spent between the tracks and the local pub.

"Me? Naw, I never slack off. Me and Banshee have been working hard all week. We'll win you that money, Race." The young jockey smiled smugly as he scooped a small pail into a sack of corn. Racetrack leaned against the stall and lit a cigarette.

"Geez Mikey. If you keep feeding her all that corn, I might have to place my bets on Tipperary Girl." Race quipped, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. Mikey threw a wet rag at the shorter boy.

"Youse don't tell me how to train my horse and I won't tells you how to sell your papes." He pointed at the younger man.

"Yeah, Race. That's my job." Sebastian, another jockey commented as he walked by with a square of hay. Mikey flipped off the other jockey and returned to feeding Banshee. Sebastian was Mama's Boy's jockey and was one of the best riders in the circuit.

"Just because youse studying to become a vetrinarian doesn't mean youse has to be a know it all, Seb." Mikey grumbled bitterly as he poured some corn into Banshee's trough.

"It's a _veterinarian_ , Mikey." Sebastian corrected the younger man. "And besides, I'm nowhere close to making the rest of my tuition." He put a halter on Mama's Boy and led him out into the alley of the stables. "Race, didja hear about the horse breeder's daughter?" Racetrack smiled excitedly.

"Is this a new joke of yours? I swear you should quit the whole veterinarian thing and work in the Vaudeville circuit." Racetrack motioned his cigarette at the tall, blonde boy.

"Nah, there's this thoroughbred breeder down in Georgia." He came over to Racetrack to where no one could hear him. "From what I know, his daughter ran away from the farm, and he's offering a big reward for his return." Racetrack rolled his eyes. He'd heard the same old story before. A rich girl runs away from home because of one thing or another and "Daddy Dearest" offers a big reward for her return. Some of them made their way to the boarding house, only for one of the newsboys, namely Jack, to take her home for the reward money.

Hey, it wasn't easy taking those beautiful girls home. But a girl had no business being a newsie, especially a spoiled rich heiress.

"Well, if you see her, tell her there's a handsome Italian in need of a date." He smiled crookedly, hitting the taller jockey playfully. Mama's Boy whinnied and stamped his feet, interrupting the two men as they horsed around.

"Alright, alright Boy." Sebastian went over to the bay stallion and patted him on the haunches. "It's almost time. You have to wait a little while longer to beat the stuffing out of Banshee."

"Now wait a minute you, addle-brained lummox!" Mikey turned towards Sebastian. "Banshee's and I will see that you eat our dust!"

Race excused himself from the stables as Sebastian and Mikey continued their argument on who the better jockey was. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he braced himself against the cold. Horses were lucky. At least they had fur to cover them. Racetrack was lucky if he could find a thin jacket from the Children's Aid Society. Racetrack got in line to place his bets as his mind went back to the stables.

In a way, he envied Sebastian. Sebastian had dreams and ambitions to be something other than a jockey. He didn't know a lot about veterinarians, but Sebastian said it paid just as good as a doctor. Sometimes even better. Sebastian also had an uncle to help pay for his schooling, which not many of the jockeys had. Mikey's family didn't even speak to him after he became a jockey. To them, being a jockey was just as bad as being a barkeep. Racetrack didn't understand why.

In fact, Racetrack didn't understand a lot of things outside of gambling and selling papes.

Racetrack looked up at the list of horses to bet on. He was indifferent to Banshee, but she could start to colic if she kept eating all that corn. There was Mama's Boy, but Racetrack felt bitter towards Sebastian and decided not to bet on his horse.

"Next!" Marcus shouted from his booth, causing the line to move forward. Racetrack needed to hurry up and make a decision and fast. Marcus wasn't the most patient of people and would pick a horse for you _and_ how much to bet if you didn't hurry. Racetrack looked up the chalkboard with the names of all the horses and went through every horse and every jockey until his head began to spin.

"I wonder which horse to choose." A low voice hummed behind him. "The Tuscan Sun? Hmm." Racetrack turned around and looked at the man. He couldn't have been more than fifty. His dark hair was peppered with white hairs, and his skin was healthy and tan.

"If youse ask me," Racetrack whispered, his cigar between his teeth, "I wouldn't waste a penny on Sun." The old man raised his eyebrows and nodded his head.

"Why do you say that?" He asked, twirling his mustache.

"The jockey's brand new and Sun is still pretty green." Racetrack took the cigar from his mouth and exhaled.

"Green? You'll have to excuse me. I'm pretty new at this."

"Yeah, green. As in he's not very trained." The old man hummed in surprised and rested his hands on his stomach.

"Well, you learn something new every day, eh?" The old man chuckled. " _Grazie_ , _paisano_." He tipped his hat and went back to his musings. Racetrack eyed him warily and moved forward to place his bets with Marcus. This man was awful talkative. Too talkative for Racetrack's liking. When you were in line to place your bets, you kept to yourself and didn't associate with newcomers. Sure, if Race saw another newsie he'd say hello and grumble about paper prices. But this man made Racetrack feel uncomfortable and felt the older man's eyes bore into his soul.

Racetrack ended up betting a bit on Mama's Boy, despite his jealousy towards Sebastian. As he walked away, he felt like he was being watched. He looked over his shoulder to see Marcus chatting with the older gentleman that was behind him. The bookie pointed at him and the old man nodded as they stared at him for a bit. A chill traveled down Race's spine as he walked further away from the betting stands.

"COME ON MAMA'S BOY! I GOT MONEY ON YOU, YOU BASTARD!" Racetrack yelled at the bay. He was standing at the bottom of the stands with a couple of Brooklyn newsies. After being pointed out by Marcus, he'd stuck close to some of the other newsboys, hoping to blend in with the ragged street urchins. Now he knew how Jack felt before Governor Roosevelt pardoned him.

The racehorses thundered past the roaring crowd, kicking up dirt as they passed by. Mama's Boy was in the lead and Banshee just a horse length behind him. Racetrack held his breath as Banshee gained on Mama's Boy. If he lost his bit on Banshee, he'd be sleeping in the streets. The temperature dropped significantly since he arrived at the track and Death would wait for him if he didn't make his rent.

Mama's Boy sped up, his long legs reaching forward, and crossed the finish line. Racetrack waved his hat in the air and cheered, elated that Mama's Boy had won but also because he wouldn't sleep on the streets tonight.

He wanted to stay around for the next race. The thrill of victory surged through his veins. He assumed he won back a dollar and if he bet again, he could win back up to five dollars!

"Well, paisano. I'm certainly glad I took your advice." The older man from earlier patted his shoulder. Racetrack froze and his breath hitched. "You seem to know a lot about the horses, eh?" Racetrack turned around towards the older man.

"Y-yeah. I come out here to sell a lot." He eyed the older man warily. "Do I know you?" The older man hooked his thumbs in his suspenders.

"Ah! Pardon me, paisano. My name is Stefano." He extended his hand to the younger boy. Racetrack took it cautiously, still eyeing the overly friendly stranger.

"Racetrack." He inhaled his cigar, hoping the tobacco would calm his nerves. Stefano raised his eyebrows.

"Is that your Christian name?" He asked suspiciously. Racetrack stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, because my mother was sentimental about horse racing." He began to walk forward, hoping for a way to get out. "Now leave me alone." He grumbled.

"Is this what you do? Walk away from your problems?" Stefano called. Racetrack kept walking, ignoring the patronizing old man. He took his cigar from his mouth and exhaled the tobacco.

"You disappointed your sister, Anthony." Racetrack stopped and dropped his cigar. He held his breath and felt his mouth dropped. Slowly, he turned towards Stefano, hoping that this was just a bad dream and he would wake up back in the lodging house. The older man looked at him with a stone-faced gaze.

"Francesca was asking about what had happened, but she refused to believe that you were dead, Anthony. When she told me she that she spent a day with her brother, I couldn't believe her." Stefano paused, taking off his hat and running a hand through his thinning hair. "Tosca confirmed it, and I thanked God for bringing you home and back into our lives. But you didn't come inside." Racetrack felt a lump in his throat. Memories of his grandfather, his Nonno, flooded his mind. He remembered his nonno's mandolin and the leathery, worn Bible he always took to mass. He remembered how he'd take Racetrack and Frannie on his knee and tell them stories of the old country. He remembered the big family dinners and the warm _castagnaccio_ his Grandfather so lovingly made. Stefano took a step forward, causing Racetrack to take one step back, like a skittish colt and his trainer.

"I understand that this is a lot to take in, polpetto." Polpetto. His mother and grandfather gave him that nickname as a boy. It had been so long since anyone had heard that. Racetrack tried to hold back the tears that welled behind his eyes. "You're probably hungry, eh?" Racetrack nodded. "Come back to the shop. Tosca will fix you a plate and we'll talk like men." Stefano walked past the stunned younger boy. Racetrack stared ahead in shock. This mustachioed, friendly man was indeed his grandfather.

"Alright. I'm only going with you because youse promised me a hot meal." Racetrack turned around and called towards Stefano. Stefano looked back at Racetrack and nodded towards the exit of the races, signaling for the younger man to come along. The two men collected their winnings from Marcus, who watched the two men skeptically as they walked off in an awkward silence. They had walked for an hour before Racetrack broke the silence.

"I ain't stayin', Stefano. I can't-I can't take any risks. I mean, I'se got friends at the boarding house, and they's probably gonna get worried about me." He replied, his voice strained. Stefano nodded and twirled the end of his mustache. "Frannie wanted me to stay, but, no offense, I'm still not sure that we'se exactly related."

"We'll discuss that after dinner, _polpetto_." Stefano smiled softly at the nervous young man. A piercing scream broke through the night, causing Stefano to jump. Racetrack walked along, conditioned to the screams and shrieks of the dark. Stefano looked at him, surprised and heartbroken that the young man was so accustomed to the dark side of the city.

"I remember when I lived in the tenements with your mother and your grandmother. We were with three other families before I bought the shop. There was always someone getting robbed or attack when we lived there." Racetrack hummed, not particularly interested in Stefano's story. He kept his eyes open for anymore pickpockets or scabbers, who tended to prowl after the sun set. He noticed three young girls, no more than thirteen, leave an alleyway. They were dressed in ragged clothes, their pinafores frayed and covered with…blood? The taller of the three girls noticed Racetrack and Stefano. She roughly nudged the other girls, who also took notice to the duo and ran. Racetrack's stomach dropped and his interest piqued. Something wasn't right.

"'Ey Stefano. Did you see those three girls?" Racetrack motioned to the silhouettes of the three girls as they ran from the alley. Stefano hummed and rubbed his chin.

"Oh yes. The O'Malley girls. Dirty micks. The little chits have a gang at Francesca's school." Racetrack felt his heart drop into his stomach and ran towards the alley.

"Where are you going?" Stefano called. "Slow down. I'm old!" But Race didn't hear him. He rounded the corner into the dark alley.

"Frannie? Frannie!" Racetrack called, turning over boxes and bags of rubbish. A painful sob made Racetrack's ears perk up. He ran towards the noise, throwing boxes aside. Under a pile of wooden boxes and rubbish was Frannie, her lip bloodied and eye blackened.

"Help me, bonehead."

 **A/N: HOLY CRAP WHATS GONNA HAPPEN?**

 **Thanks again to Joker is Poker with a J and coveredinbees14 for the reviews. It really means a lot and I can't thank you enough!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Newsies isn't mine. Just sayin'.**

Frannie Higgins wasn't known to make good decisions. The eleven-year-old was impulsive and temperamental, which got her in trouble more often than not. Whenever her grandparents would scold her for her carelessness, she would simply shrug and reply, "What I lack in height, I make up in spunk." This time, her spunk caused her to get a beating from the O'Malley sisters.

The O'Malley sisters comprised of Millicent, Moira, and Margaret. Margaret was the youngest and the meanest of the three sisters. She was nine-years-old, but she was already three inches taller than Frannie. Despite the O'Malley family's relative wealth, they were a dog-faced bunch. No amount of money or status could make the sisters remotely attractive. The chestnut haired girls got a kick, both figuratively and literally, out of picking on Frannie, not only because of her height but because of her hot-headedness as well. The O'Malley sisters propositioned the dark haired girl earlier that day: "Give us three dollars, and you won't have to steals for us no more." Frannie had taken the requested amount from Stefano's cookie tin in their kitchen with her to school. It was the last time she would steal again. Racetrack would be so proud of her.

Well, if he ever showed his ugly mug again.

The youngest Higgins sibling lay crumpled in a heap beneath a pile of rubbish. Her left shoulder hurt like the dickens, and she had a hard time breathing. She mentally scolded herself for allowing herself to be tricked by the future criminals. The three girls took her money, beat her senseless, and left her in the alley to die.

Stefano rushed to his grandchildren, worry spread across his face. Racetrack continued to throw old newspapers and pieces of wood off of the injured girl, hoping her injuries weren't too serious. _"Those O'Malley broads really buried her good."_ Racetrack thought to himself. Stefano helped his oldest grandson toss the trash off of Frannie. When they finished, Stefano gently grasped Frannie's torso to prop her up, causing the younger to cry in pain.

"Francesca? Francesca, _piccola_ , look at me! What happened?" Stefano asked frantically, as he pushed whatever hair wasn't caked in blood from her face. Racetrack felt sick to his stomach looking at Frannie. Her right eye was swollen shut and the side of her lip was blemished with a large cut. From the way she was breathing, Racetrack assumed the O'Malley girls cracked a couple of ribs. Stefano crossed himself and knelt in front of his granddaughter. Racetrack wanted to throw up, but not from the state Frannie was in. If he hadn't run away, Frannie wouldn't be in such a state. His head swam with anger and guilt. He was angry at Frannie's careless decision to get mixed up with the O'Malley girls' gang, but he was especially angry at himself for not being there to protect her.

"O'Malleys-" She gasped. "Gang." Stefano exhaled out of frustration and Racetrack ran a hand through his dark curls.

"We'll talk more once you're better, _piccola_." He whispered. "Now, let's get you back home." He lifted the small girl from under her arms with all the strength he could muster for a man his age. True, he was fifty-seven years old and in good health, but it had been a while since he carried dead weight. Frannie yelped in pain as he got her to stand up. Tears streamed down her face from the intense pain she was in. Racetrack analyzed her pain from where he stood. He didn't expect to see Frannie this soon and certainly not in this state. He wanted to help, but his head was so clouded with 'what if's,' he stood frozen in place.

"Anthony, we need to get her to the shop." Stefano finally said after propping Frannie up against the alley wall. "Come and help carry her to the shop." Racetrack nodded, still examining Frannie's injuries from where he stood. He went to Frannie's left and bent down to wrap the injured girl's arm around her shoulder. Frannie screamed in pain, causing Racetrack to wince.

"Geez, Frannie. Scream a little louder, why don't ya. I could use a handicap to help sell my papes." He snapped sarcastically. He tried wrapping Frannie's arm around his neck again, but whenever he tried, Frannie would whimper and lean into Stefano. Racetrack was beginning to lose his patience with the dark haired girl. He felt a lump in his throat. He was frustrated with the obstinate girl and wanted to scream.

"This ain't the time to be mad at me, Fran." He barked, trying to keep his voice from cracking. He put his hand on her left shoulder and noticed a raised bump and the droop in her shoulders. Frannie screamed in pain, her sobs were beginning to get louder, and her face was getting paler. Race lifted his hand and gently went to touch the sensitive spot again. Frannie whimpered in pain and leaned into Stefano.

"Anthony!" Stefano scolded the boy. "Take it easy. If she screams again, someone might call the cops on us." Frannie's right arm was wrapped around Stefano's neck, and his hand snaked around to hold up her waist.

"You're right. I'm sorry." He muttered. "I'se just-" He sighed, frustrated at the situation.

"I understand, _polpetto_. You're frustrated and scared. But you need to keep your head, just until we get to the apartment, _capisce_?" Racetrack nodded. He wished he had a cigar right now to chew on. That would help him think and clear his head. "Now, with the state, she's in we're going to have to take it slow when we walk back."

"Walk? There's no way she can walk. Her shoulder's been dislocated. That's the most painful shit I've ever seen." It was true. Blink dislocated his shoulder after doing a drunken jig on a table at Medda's. The sight of the misaligned bone from the blonde boy's shoulder was chilling, to say the least. Lucky for him, Skittery knew how to pop a shoulder back into place, and they fixed the eye-patched boy's shoulder in a snap.

"We have no other choice. It will take a bit longer to get there, but we'll get there nonetheless." Stefano replied calmly. " _Piccola_ , _lasciate che il vostro fratello ti aiuta._ " Stefano gently ordered Frannie in Italian. Racetrack's Italian was rusty. The only Italian he knew were curse words. Frannie seemed to understand and allowed Racetrack to help her walk to the apartment.

Racetrack held up Frannie by her waist, allowing the small girl to put some of her weight on Racetrack and off of their aging grandfather. The three walked slowly out of the dark alleyway into the dim streets of Lower Manhattan. Despite Frannie's carelessness, she at least stayed close to the shop. From where they were, it would only be a ten-minute walk. However, the ten-minute walk was beginning to turn into a thirty-minute walk. Racetrack and Stefano would have to stop and readjust Frannie, who would slip in and out of consciousness, causing the two men to lose their grip on the small girl. Other times, it would be for the two men to shake out their tingling arms or for Stefano to catch his breath.

"Scuse me." The sound of slowing hooves interrupting their brief break. Racetrack's head gravitated towards the noise. A man with mousy brown hair and a greasy beard pulled up next to the family with his wagon. "'She okay? She don't look too good."

"She was beaten." Stefano cleared his throat and answered. "We need to get to my shop so that we can attend to her injuries." The wagon driver eyed Racetrack and Stefano warily.

"'ow do I'se know that youse didn't give 'er the blinker?" The wagon driver glared at Stefano.

"Sir, I understand your heart is in the right place, but my granddaughter needs medical attention.

"Alright. Say I'se believes you, old man. How much youse willing to pay me for my services?" The wagon driver asked. Stefano inhaled sharply, like an angry bull, but exhaled, letting the anger rush out of his lungs. There was no use in shouting at the man. If Stefano was going to get what he wanted, he knew anger wouldn't be the answer. Although, he was exhausted from that day and just wanted to get his grandchildren home.

"Please, she is so tired, and I am so old. My grandson and I have walked all the way from Coney Island." Stefano pleaded with the greedy wagon driver. Racetrack bit his lower lip, really wishing that he had a cigar to chew on right about now. A $1.50 could go a long way. He could pay the lodging fee for a little over a month and still have enough money for bread. But he knew Frannie would die of shock if they didn't get back to the book shop in time. In her moment of consciousness, Frannie looked up at her brother with imploring eyes, her hazel orbs standing out against her pallid face. In short, she looked pitiful. The normally talkative and vibrant eleven-year-old was uncharacteristically silent. Racetrack outwardly groaned and used his free hand to dig out his winnings from Sheepshead.

"Look, here's $1.50. Help us get her into the wagon, and I'll pay you after youse dropped us off." Racetrack showed the wagon driver the money, hoping and praying that the greedy wagon driver would find it in his heart to help the small family.

"Please?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Here we go!**

Race held his breath, hoping this guy kept his word and not double-cross the small family. The wagon driver hopped down from his seat and sized up Stefano. The wagon driver was tall, but well built, almost like Specs, and towered over Stefano. His round jaw was covered with a scraggly unkempt beard, and he smelled of coal and soot.

"Alright, help me get her into the wagon." He finally said. Racetrack released a breath he had been holding in for quite some time. The wagon driver nudged Frannie's arm over his neck and lifted her into his arms, causing her to whimper in pain. "I'se got her, kid. Don' worry." He murmured, noticing Racetrack's worried expression.

"Thank you, Anthony." Stefano patted Racetrack on his shoulder. "You're a good man." Racetrack felt his heart swell. The little voice in the back of his mind that denied Stefano's relation to the young Italian seemed to dissipate. "Now come on. Jump on the wagon and help get your sister in." Racetrack nodded and crawled into the bed of the wagon. Racetrack stretched his arms out to the wagon driver to receive Frannie.

"Be careful with her, boy." The wagon driver whispered as he handed off the unconscious girl to Racetrack. "'Er shoulder don't look too good." Racetrack gently held onto Frannie's torso, trying to avoid touching her dislocated shoulder and ribs as much as he possibly could. Sweat and blood intermingled with the loose hairs on Frannie's forehead and dripped down her round cheeks. Racetrack propped her up against the side of the wagon and wiped some of the sweat from her brow with his handkerchief.

"Hey, Fran. Ya gotta stay with me, okay?" He muttered, trying to be as gentle as he could with his unconscious sister. "I know it hurts like shit, but Nonno and I are gonna make you feel better." Frannie groaned weakly in response. Stefano sat next to the wagon driver and started a conversation with him. The wagon driver snapped the reins and continued.

The ride seemed to go on forever for Racetrack. He saw Frannie slip in and out of consciousness and cry in pain whenever they would run over a pot hole. The wagon driver would mutter an apology whenever he heard the small girl's cries. Racetrack had one arm wrapped around Frannie's back and the other around her stomach to keep her body from bouncing around too much.

"Hurts." She whispered during a bout of consciousness. She rested her pigtailed head onto Racetrack's shoulder. From that angle, Racetrack could see the how much damage the O'Malley girls had done to Frannie's face. Besides the swollen black eye and a split lip, she had some minor scratches and purpling bruises that covered her freckles. They were more noticeable than ever now that her face was so pale from exhaustion.

In other words, she looked like shit.

"I know, Fran. Just hang on to me." Racetrack whispered, adjusting his grip on the, now unconscious, girl. The older Higgins sibling felt the wagon come to a slow and steady stop. He shifted his weight to his knees and turned to face the outside of the wagon. They were at Stefano's book shop at last.

" _Grazie_ , Mr. Peters. My family is forever in your debt." Stefano shook the wagon drivers hand and tipped his hat.

"Aw it was nothing, Mr. G. I'se just hates to see kids suffer, that's all." He replied bashfully as he jumped down from the wagon and walked around the back. He unhooked the tail board and let it fall with a clap.

"Scoot her over to me, kid. I'll helps youse get her inside." He ordered to Racetrack. Race walked over Frannie to pick her up from her right side. He hooked one arm under the backs of her knees and nudged her arm over his neck.

"Hang on, Fran. We'se gonna get you inside." He murmured as he placed the small girl into Mr. Peter's arms.

"Be careful with her." He warned. Mr. Peters nodded and readjusted the unconscious girl.

"Stefano!" Tosca barked from the window, worry lacing her bark. " _Cosa diavolo é successo?_ What the hell happened?" Stefano dug his key out of his pocket and unlocked the shop door for Mr. Peters and Frannie.

"Tosca! Get some hot water and send for the doctor! Rapidamente!" He shouted back to his wife."Anthony! Come into the house! I'm going to need your help." Racetrack nodded quickly and hopped off of the cart.

"Place her over there, Mr. Peters." Tosca pulled the bed into the sitting area of the apartment and propped some pillows up against it. " _Molte_ grazie for helping my _bambina_." She muttered as she helped the lumbering man place the tiny girl on the bed. Racetrack was the last person to enter the apartment. It was just as he remembered. The kitchen, which also acted as a sitting room, was just as cozy as it was when he was a boy.

"Anthony!" Racetrack snapped his head towards Stefano. "I need you to boil some water." Racetrack looked at the old man like he had two heads.

"I'se…uh…don't know how." He replied bashfully. Stefano exhaled and ran his hand through his thinning hair out of frustration. Racetrack was a street kid. How was he supposed to know how to boil water? "Let me go and get one of my friends from the lodging house. He knows how to reset shoulders, and it'll save ya a couple bucks."

"Absolutely not. If you can't boil water, then you'll have to wait here with your sister for the doctor." Tosca snapped. His grandmother's brow was furrowed, and her eyes were focused on Frannie.

"Why can't I go get my friends? Look, Nonna, I've seen this more often than not and who knows how long it'll take for the doctor to get here!" Racetrack motioned his hand to the streets. Tosca moved from her spot beside Frannie, turned towards her grandson, and looked him straight in the eye. Her light brown eyes glinted with anger and worry.

"How do I know you're going to come back, eh? The last time you came here, I barely got you through the door. And what if Frannie wakes up? How are we going to tell her that her brother walked out on her again? If you really are her brother!" She sneered, shaking a finger at Racetrack.

"How do I know _you're_ her grandmother? How do I know you're my grandmother?" He shot back. He didn't remember his _nonna_ being this angry and distrusting. Then again, she was raising Frannie, who was a handful all on her own.

" _Silencia_! Both of you!" Stefano shouted. The room was completely silent, except for the sound of dinner on the stove. "Nobody in this family is leaving this apartment except for me! I'll ask Salvatore to get these friends of Anthony's. What are their names, _polpetto_?" Racetrack exhaled sharply and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"Youse gonna wanna ask for Jack Kelly, Skittery Dargay, Kid Blink, and Davey Jacobs if he's there. Don't ask me for Blink's last name because nobody knows it. The lodging house is on Duane Street. There's a grocer right next to it. Youse can't miss it." He answered and stuffed his hands in his pocket. What he would give for a cigar right about now! Tosca looked at Racetrack incredulously, thinking how all the people would fit in their apartment and the names of some of these boys. Stefano nodded and went to get Salvatore, whoever he was. Mr. Peters stood awkwardly by the door twiddling his thumbs. Racetrack walked over the lumbering man and pulled out his winnings from earlier that day.

"Hey, thanks for the ride." Racetrack handed him the money. "I know it wasn't too far but you done good on your part." Mr. Peters counted the money in his palm and stretched his hand out to Racetrack. The younger took Mr. Peters hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Good luck to ya, boy." He said as he left the apartment. Racetrack nodded and closed the door behind him.

"I'm not even going to ask where you got that money, young man." Tosca piped up. She had a bowl of cool water with a rag in it. She made sure the rag was wet and wrung the excess water out before placing it on Frannie's forehead.

"Good, because I'se wasn't going to tell you." He muttered. "Does Stefano keep any cigarettes in here." Tosca continued washing the blood and dirt off of Frannie's forehead.

"Smoking is a dirty habit. Stefano and I don't allow it." She said curtly. Racetrack rolled his eyes and walked to the window.

This was going to be a long night.

 **A/N: Shorter chapter, I know. Thanks for everyone who's made it this far :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**YAY! CHAPTER NINE! Thanks to WordyAF and Booklover115 for the reviews and the faves.**

 **Now, I'm going to introduce Katherine from the musical, because I fucking love her and why can't we mesh the two worlds together?**

 **Remember to read, review, and favorite :)**

* * *

"He usually not this late." Jack Kelly murmured. He was standing by the window of the lodging house, waiting for Racetrack to come home, like a little boy waited for a lost puppy. Racetrack was a typically timely person and was hardly ever late getting back to the lodging house before Kloppman locked the doors, especially with the temperature dropping with every passing hour. The leader of the Manhattan newsboys took a drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke escape from his mouth. He felt two slender arms wrap around his torso from behind and a warm body lean up against him. Normally, would have tensed, considering that he used to be a wanted man and he lived with a bunch of rowdy newsboys, but he would recognize that touch anywhere.

"Any sign of him, Jack?" Katherine asked, letting her head rest between the sandy-haired boy's shoulder blades. Jack rested his large hand over her small, slender one and stroked the smooth skin of her knuckles with his callous, inked stained thumb.

"Nah, not yet." He muttered, his eyes still glued to the street. "D'ya think somethin' happened to him, Plum?" He rested his head against the window, his breath creating a foggy layer against the glass. Katherine sighed, let go of Jack's torso, and stood by the self-proclaimed cowboy. She nestled herself under his arm. Katherine Plumber Pulitzer was still new to the concept of intimacy. Her mother died when she was very young, and her father would show affection by a pat on the head or a handshake. Jack was different. He would stroke her hair and rub her shoulders after a long day. He would take her hand like it was made of porcelain and pepper it with the softest of kisses. Katherine liked it, but after a while, she would get overwhelmed by him and tell him to buzz off.

"Maybe he got caught up in a poker game." She reassured him. Jack scoffed and wrapped his arm around her waist. "Well, it's not out of character for him," Katherine grumbled, annoyed that her boyfriend didn't take her suggestion seriously.

"Youse ain't wrong, Plum." He kissed her head. "But even still, it's cold as hell out there. Race hates the cold."

"Oh, he couldn't hate it as much as the rest of us," Katherine said dismissively. Jack looked at her skeptically and scoffed.

"Yeah, youse try listening to his bitchin' and moanin' twenty-four-seven." He muttered. Katherine rolled her eyes and hit him in the stomach playfully. Jack retaliated by tickling her sides, causing the shorter redhead to squeal with laughter.

Goddamn, he loved the feisty reporter, although he could never tell her. He knew it was early in their relationship and didn't want to mess anything up. Jack figured he was good at messing things up from time to time. However, if it weren't for his failed relationship with Sarah, he wouldn't be dating Plum, as he affectionately called her. Yes, Jack and Sarah were attracted to each other, but a couple of weeks after the strike ended, they realized that they felt a platonic love towards one another and broke it off. If Sarah hadn't spoken to Katherine on his behalf, the beautiful, smart, and independent reporter would've brushed the sandy-haired cowboy aside like yesterday's headline.

He'd have to remember to thank Sarah later.

The young couple was interrupted by a knock at the door. Jack let go of Katherine and bolted towards the door, hoping and praying that it was Race. He threw open the door the door but was disappointed when he saw a small, mousey haired boy instead of his second in command.

"I-Is this the newsboy's lodging house?" He shivered. Jack felt a pang of pity or the chill hitting his bones and pulled the shivering boy inside. The boy's olive toned cheeks were rosy from the crisp autumn night. Jack squatted down to meet the smaller boy's eyes to talk man-to-man.

"Yeah, who's askin'?" Jack replied skeptically. Katherine stood behind Jack, curious to see what this strange boy wanted and also to make sure Jack didn't do anything too stupid. The boy didn't look like he was a street kid. His collar was crisp and white, but what gave him away was the thick wool coat that covered his tiny, frail body.

"Me? My name's Sal Bianchi. Mr. Genovese told me to come here. His daughter is has a broken arm!" He quivered, blowing hot air into his hands to warm up. Jack frowned and crossed his arms.

"Sorry, kid. Youse must be mistaken." He stood up and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. "We'se newsboys. Not doctors." Jack turned away from Sal to light another cigarette. "'Sides, I don't know nobody named Genovese."

"I do!" Katherine piped up. "He owns that beautiful bookstore about four blocks from here." She jabbed her thumb in the direction of the bookstore. Jack exhaled, a trail of smoke left his mouth like a snake. He wanted to believe Sal, but he knew it could have been a trick by the Harlem boys. He also wanted to believe Katherine, who's opinion held weight with him. But why would some bookstore owner want a newsie?

"But he told me to come here and ask for Jake Kelly, David, Skimmery, and Kid Blank! His grandson is a friend of theirs!" Salvatore called behind him. Katherine erupted into a fit of laughter. "What? What's so funny, lady?" The pipsqueak asked, annoyed that the older kids wouldn't believe him. Jack glared at Katherine.

Jake Kelly? Well, at least he got Jack's last name right.

"Okay, so why does Mr. Genovese need those guys, huh?" Jack asked, taking a frustrated drag of his cigarette. This kid wasn't doing an excellent job of convincing him, and the older boy was about to kick him out.

"I don't know! Mr. Genovese's grandson knows those guys! I didn't even know he had a grandson!" Sal exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "He just came in off the streets and smelled like cigar smoke. I know because Mr. Genovese will smoke them on the roof of our building when Mrs. Genovese ain't lookin'!" Jack and Katherine froze and looked at each other.

"Sal, was it?" Katherine knelt down to the boy's level. Sal nodded his head. "Could you give us a minute? Do you want to sit and warm yourself by the fireplace?" Sal nodded fervently and sped over to the small fire. She smiled, got up, and pulled Jack far enough away, so they were out of Sal's earshot.

"Jack, I think he's talking about Racetrack." She whispered, looking over at the skinny boy. "Who else smells like cigars? That's Race's M.O.!"

"A what?"

"An M.O! You know, modus operandi!" Jack stared blankly at the redhead.

"Youse been hanging out with David too much." He deadpanned. Katherine groaned and massaged her temples at Jack's stunted vocabulary.

"Modus operandi means a signature trait. People use it in crime novels all the time! For instance, Racetrack always has a cigar, no money, or a smartass comment." Jack's eyes shifted to Sal again and back to Katherine.

"Okay, but a lot of guys smoke." He motioned his cigarette at her. "So what if this guy smells like cigars. Don't mean its Race." Katherine rolled her eyes and groaned, getting frustrated with her boyfriend.

"Hey, Sal!" She called, making Jack jump out of his skin. "What does Mr. Genovese's grandson look like?"

"His face looked like Frannie's, and he dressed real nice. He's got a pocket watch and everything." He called back. Katherine gave Jack a smug look as if to say 'I told you so.' Jack's mouth fell open. Katherine had a penchant for relying on her gut instinct, but he didn't believe it until now.

"Gotta know when to ask the right questions, Cowboy." She patted his cheek and sashayed past him to throw on a coat.

"So?" Sal ran over to Jack. "Do you believe me? Will you get those guys? Please?" He begged. Jack exhaled, irritated that he was wrong and that he'd have to go out in the cold. He smothered his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and pushed past Sal to go up the stair to the bunk room.

"'Ey! Is Blink here?" He yelled. Crutchie hobbled to the head of the stairs and looked down the banister at Jack

"He's on a date, Cowboy! Real nice gal too." The disabled boy called back.

"What about David? He still here?" Jack called back, hoping his friend hadn't gone home yet.

"Les got sick, so he cheesed it." Jack ran a hand through his hair. He didn't want to follow this kid alone. It wasn't like he couldn't handle being alone, but things were tense with the Harlem Newsies, and he didn't think that this Sal kid knew a lot about fighting.

"Okay, what about Skitts? Is he here?" Jack heard the hollow thump of Crutchie's crutch as he went to the bunk room.

"Yeah, he's here! What d'ya want with him?" Crutchie called back.

"Tell him to get his ass down here! And send Specs too! Race is in trouble" Jack ran down the stairs to grab a spare coat from behind Kloppman's desk.

"Plum, youse stay here in case somethin' happens." He pointed to her as she was in the middle of buttoning her coat.

"Absolutely not! I'm going with you!" She retorted as she pulled on her gloves. "You know as well as anybody that I'm as good in a fight as a Brooklyn boy." Jack pulled on his cowboy hat as Skittery and Specs scuttled down the stairs.

"What'd that idiot do this time?" Skittery grumbled. Jack didn't seem to hear him as he argued with Plum. The cranky newsboy wasn't looking forward to going outside, especially as he already had Tumbler tucked in and ready for a bedtime story. He noticed smaller, well-dressed boy near the fireplace who watched the arguing couple in frightened fascination.

"Who's the kid?" He nudged Specs. The spectacled Newsie shrugged.

"I don't know what we're getting into, Plum!" Jack raised his voice to Katherine, who simply crossed her arms and stood her ground.

"What about the Rule of Four? Hmm?" Katherine retorted. She got Jack there. The rule of four was enacted after the strike by Jack and Spot Conlon. It stated that whenever a newsie went out after a certain hour, he need to take three other newsies with him. Two to fight, one to run for help.

"You have to take me home anyways, so I'm saving you a trip back here! You don't want to spend more time in the cold do you?" She wagged her finger at him. "Also, I know the way to Mr. Genovese's bookstore, so if the kid is lying, I'll know." She raised her chin and smiled smugly, relishing in her victory.

"It doesn't matter if the lady comes! We need to go now!" Sal cried as he pulled on Katherine's coat sleeve. Jack motioned for Specs and Skittery.

And with that, the five of them made their way towards Genovese's Great Reads.

* * *

Racetrack paced in the small apartment like a tiger in a cage. Frannie was conscious but was crying from the pain in her ribs and her shoulder. Her tears caused Race's head to spin and anxiety to spike. To add to his anxiety, Tosca would barely talk to him or would bark orders at him.

Racetrack thought grandmothers were supposed to be fun and make you food. With Tosca, Racetrack was sadly mistaken.

"Santa Maria, Anthony! Sit down! You'll wear a hole in my mother's rug!" She chided. "If you're going be standing up, you can get me a bowl of clean water." Racetrack shuffled over to the table beside Frannie, grabbed the porcelain dish, and stomped to the water pump.

"And be careful with that! It's— "

"I know. Your mother's, right?" He muttered angrily as he dumped the dirty water from the basin.

" _Your_ mother's." She replied stiffly, staring coldly at Racetrack. In her mind, he looked just like Stefano and her sons, except for the freckles on his cheeks that he got from his father's side. In her heart, she was elated to have her _polpetto_ back but was also angry at him for other reasons. "She was so excited when we bought that for her birthday. She was a little older than Francesca." She stroked Frannie's cheek while fighting back the tears that wanted to fall to her cheeks. She quickly wiped her eyes and returned to her knitting. Racetrack paused and looked at the older woman in a new light. He could see traces of his mother and Frannie in the aged woman. The older woman must have sensed Racetrack staring. "What are you looking at? I don't have two heads! Get me that water!" She snapped, ending the tender moment between her and her grandson.

"Give the boy a rest, _cara mia_." Stefano chided as he walked in the door. Tosca put down her knitting and rushed to her husband.

"Any word from the doctor or Salvatore?" She asked. Stefano shook his head and placed his hat on a nearby hook.

"We'll just have to keep waiting." He said calmly. "How are you two getting along?" He kissed his wife on the cheek. Racetrack stopped pumping and carefully picked up his mother's basin.

"Well, he's not _completely_ useless," Tosca replied exasperated and returned to her vigil by Frannie. Racetrack rolled his eyes at his grandmother. "He almost put a hole in the rug!" Stefano chuckled and took the basin from Racetrack and winked at him.

"How'd you do that, _polpetto_?" He inquired, amused at Tosca's accusation. Racetrack wiped the excess water on his pants and sat in a wooden chair near the potbelly stove.

"Just walkin'." He muttered. Stefano hummed and placed the basin on the table next to Frannie.

"Come up to the roof, _polpetto_. We have business to discuss." Racetrack looked at the older man skeptically.

"But it's freezing out there!" He jerked his thumb to the window. Stefano tossed Race's coat at him, causing it to hit him in the face.

"Not with that attitude it's not. Come on. You need some fresh air." Racetrack slipped his arms through the sleeves and followed Stefano to the fire escape, grumbling that the old man didn't know what he needed. Racetrack glanced up the fire escape, looking for Stefano. The Genovese patriarch climbed the fire escape like a cat fleeing a pack of dogs. For an old man, Stefano was nimble and quick as he climbed the fire escape. Racetrack followed him, not because Stefano had told him to, but because he was curious to see if the old man could make it to the top without keeling over. Finally, Race climbed to the top and lifted himself over the edge of the building. He found Stefano sitting on a bench near a tomato plant smoking a cigar. The pleasant smell of tobacco tickled Racetrack's nostrils.

How he missed that great smell.

"I thought youse didn't allow cigars in the apartment?" He questioned the old man. Stefano shrugged and inhaled the cigar.

"We're not in the apartment." He replied contentedly, letting the cigar rest between his fingers. "I don't let the girls know. A man's got to have his vices, eh?" He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Come sit. You look like you could use one." He patted to an open spot on the bench. Racetrack almost sprinted over, lured by the promise of tobacco, and sat next to Stefano. The old man laughed, passed him a cigar, and lit it for newsboy. The two men sat in silence for a bit, enjoying the night sky and their vices.

"Don't let your grandmother get to you," Stefano said after taking a drag of his cigar. "She's still getting used to you being alive." Racetrack hummed in agreement, letting the cigar rest in his mouth. "I assume you're still getting used to everything too, sì?" Racetrack removed the cigar from his lips and rested his elbows on his knees.

"I guess. I don't really know what to think." He took a drag from his cigar. "How did Frannie survive the fire?" He turned his head towards Stefano. Stefano leaned back and exhaled.

"I don't think now's the time for such sad stories. All that matters is that Francesca survived and you survived." Racetrack scoffed and inhaled his cigar again.

"But that don't answer my question. Mama and Frannie are supposed to be dead." He countered, suppressing the memories of the fateful day his apartment caught fire. Stefano took a drag of his cigar and sighed.

"I told your mother not to move out. But she was stubborn, just like you and _definitely_ like Francesca." He emphasized the last part. "You don't remember, do you _polpetto_?" He looked at Racetrack, who was staring at the ground.

"You got in trouble at school. I don't remember what, but you were a bright boy and knew how to make trouble." Stefano chuckled. Racetrack felt hot tears travel down his face, his eyes still glued to the ground. He remembered that day. He had conned a bully into chasing him, only to have the bully run into a low hanging branch. "When I got to the apartment, your mother handed Francesca to me, and ran back inside for you." There was a tense and uncomfortable pause between the two.

"Is that why you brought me up here?" He choked back a sob. He turned around and faced his grandfather; tears were streaming down his face. "IS THAT WHY YOU BROUGHT ME UP HERE?" He shouted, jabbing his cigar at Stefano. "Yeah, I knows why you brought me up here." He wiped away his tears and took a drag of his cigar, letting the tobacco calm his nerves. "You brought me up here to tell me that I killed Mama. That it's my fault." He sobbed. "Well I know it's my fault! Mama sent me to my room, and I snuck out to play marbles with some kids from school. When I got back, Mama and Frannie was dead. And I'se had to live with that for eight years. Eight. Years." He sobbed. He couldn't control himself at that point. He fell to his knees and cried. All the grief and anger he had held in for so long came pouring out at that moment. Stefano placed his cigar on an ashtray that he pulled out and walked over to Racetrack. He knelt down and put a hand on the boy's shoulder and took the cigar from his fingers, smothering it.

"You didn't know, _polpetto,"_ Stefano reassured him. With the way these buildings are built, it could have happened to anybody." Racetrack looked up at Stefano, his brown eyes stained red and his cheeks moist from crying. The oldest Higgins sibling felt like he was six years old again when he would get so angry that he'd scream and cry. Nobody could console him during these rampages, except Stefano, who possessed the uncanny ability to calm down the future gambler with his quiet voice and how he treated Racetrack like a man, not a child.

"Now," Stefano cleared his throat and pulled Racetrack up by the armpits to make him stand. "You've had more than enough time to be sad." Racetrack wiped his nose with his sleeve and looked at his grandfather with a confused expression. "It's time to be glad and look towards tomorrow." Stefano smiled and patted Racetrack on the cheek. Racetrack grimaced at the touch; he didn't like it when Jack or Blink did that, and he most certainly did not like it when Stefano did it.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Racetrack questioned the older man. Stefano chuckled and twisted the ends of his mustache, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"God is so good!" Stefano exclaimed. "Not only did Francesca survive, but you did too! Both my grandchildren are alive!" He laughed and threw his hands to the sky.

"Stefano!" Tosca called from the apartment below. "Salvatore's back with a bunch of street urchins and a working girl!" The two Italian men walked to the edge of the building and climbed over the ledge onto the fire escape.

"What about that business you wanted to talk to me about?" Racetrack inquired, his voice hoarse from crying. Stefano rubbed his chin and hummed, forgetting his original intentions.

"We'll save that for another time." He shrugged. "In the meantime, wipe your eyes. You don't want your friends to give you grief, eh?" He chuckled as he shimmied down the ladder. Racetrack composed himself by taking a deep breath and wiping the excess moisture from his eyes. He felt a huge burden was lifted from his shoulders and felt considerably lighter. But as Racetrack looked out towards the dim lights of the city, he couldn't help but wonder.

"What now?" He whispered and proceeded to climb down the fire escape.

* * *

 **Again, thank you all so much for reviewing and staying with me this far in. I know it's not the best, but I love writing, and I love adding to this fandom.**

 **Read and Review :)**

 **-Hannah**


	10. Chapter 10

Racetrack crawled into his grandparent's apartment through the window Stefano left open. He was more than happy to have the warmth from the apartment caress his rosy cheeks. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw Jack and Skittery awkwardly standing around the apartment, but he was surprised to see Katherine and Specs there as well. Racetrack figured that David left before Salvatore got there and who knows where Kid Blink ran off to.

A tense and uncomfortable silence filled the apartment. Jack fiddled with the strings of his cowboy hat, trying to avoid the stares of Stefano and Tosca. Skittery's hands were stuffed in the pockets of fraying, brown coat and he was slumped against the wall next to Specs. Stefano leaned against the door frame between the kitchen and the sitting room, and Tosca sat in her chair and continued her knitting, eyeing the scrappy newsboys and Katherine warily.

"Race!" Jack exclaimed, noticing Racetrack in the kitchen. The self-proclaimed cowboy rushed over to his second-in-command, almost running Stefano over. "Are youse okay? Where've you been?" Jack's face was laced with worry and panic. Racetrack felt a pang of guilt. He saw Skittery, Specs, and Katherine move from their spots on the wall and carefully maneuvered around Frannie's bed, worry too spread across their faces. He didn't expect Specs and Katherine to come along, and he felt sorry for interrupting their respective evenings.

"Yeah, I'm all right." He replied absentmindedly, trying to hide the guilt from seeping through. "Uh, hey guys." He waved to Specs and Skittery, who stood beside Jack.

"We're glad you're okay, Race." Katherine smiled warmly.

"Now, tell us why youse dragged our asses out of the warmth of the lodging house." Skittery grumbled. Jack and Specs agreed with Skittery. Race noticed Tosca glaring at Skittery from her chair, clearly appalled by Skittery's language.

"Yes, Anthony," Tosca commented, squinting her eyes at Racetrack. "Please explain to us all why _you_ , a guest in _my_ home, brought it upon yourself to invite these urchins into this apartment." Jack sighed in frustration. The older Italian woman did not greet them with open arms; rather she'd been suspicious of them since they walked through the door. She even had the nerve to call Katherine a prostitute!

Racetrack flattened his lip from the stress filling the apartment. He moved past Jack to stand between his biological family and his adopted family.

"Uh, youse guys. These are my grandparents, Stefano and Tosca Genovese," He motioned to Stefano and Tosca. Stefano nodded his head and smiled, whereas Tosca still gave the four teenagers a cold and icy stare. "And the girl on the bed is my kid sister, Francesca." He gestured to Frannie.

"Stefano, Tosca, Frannie, if youse conscious," Frannie groaned in response, "These are my friends. Skittery Dargay," Skittery nodded, "Specs Phelps," Specs tipped his hat, "Katherine Pul-"

"Plumber, Race. Plumber." Katherine corrected him. Racetrack rolled his eyes.

"Katherine _Plumber_. And Jack Kelly." Racetrack jerked his thumb towards Jack. Tosca clucked her tongue and returned to her knitting.

"I assume these aren't your Christian names?" She inquired stiffly. Stefano rested a hand on Tosca's shoulder to silence her. Katherine raised her chin in defiance. She was already irritated that Jack wouldn't take her word in the lodging house and that she had to run against the chilling New York wind, only to find out that Race was okay and had the rudest woman she'd ever met as a grandmother.

"Please, excuse my wife," Stefano apologized for his sharp tongued wife. "She is just exhausted from worry about our granddaughter." Stefano walked over to Jack and extended his hand to the sandy haired boy. Jack, not wanting to offend his host, took it and gave it a hearty shake.

"I recognize your picture from the paper, _paisano_." Stefano chuckled. "I'm very proud of your work with the strike." Jack smiled bashfully. Even though the strike had been over for several months, there was always one person who remembered Jack and wanted to shake his hand or give him a kiss on the cheek and Jack Kelly was never one to turn down a compliment.

Racetrack was overjoyed that Stefano chose to shake his hand.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Genovese." Jack blushed. Stefano let go of Jack's hand.

"Please call me Stefano!" He replied jovially, flapping hands. "Welcome to my home!" He turned his attentions to Katherine. "And you must be the lovely Katherine? I remember seeing you in my shop, _bella_." He took Katherine's hand and shook in gently. "You bought my last copy of The Awakening." Katherine turned away and blushed. She enjoyed the book, but it was far too scandalous to talk about in the company of men.

"Well, I-I suppose I did." She replied flustered. The other men in the room looked at her disbelievingly. Jack was shocked that Katherine wanted to waste her money on garbage like that, although not surprised.

"Well, nonetheless, it's good to put a name to a face, _bella_." He winked and shook the other two newsboys' hands. Skittery kept himself guarded around Stefano, never the one to be too trusting around others.

"Okay, so now that everyone's acquainted and such," Racetrack raised his voice to draw attention to himself, "We'se gotta talk about resetting Frannie's shoulder." Skittery's head snapped towards Racetrack, dread covering his face.

"Please tell me that's not why you sent for us." He moaned. Race shrugged. Skittery took Race by the shoulder and dragged him to the kitchen. Racetrack crossed his arms and leaned against the water pump. Skittery looked around anxiously and ran his ink-stained hand through his messy hair.

"Racetrack, she needs a doctor, not a street kid," Skittery said in a low voice.

"He's not wrong!" Tosca commented from her chair, causing Stefano to scold the discourteous woman.

"See! Even your grandmother doesn't believe in me!" Skittery motioned a hand to the gray-haired woman. Racetrack held his elbow and chewed on a hangnail on his other hand as Skittery rambled on why he couldn't, or wouldn't, help Racetrack. The Italian boy's nerves were wearing thin, and he grabbed the taller boy's shoulder and forced him to look at Racetrack.

"Skitts!" Racetrack yelled, interrupting Skittery's rambling, "Youse did it once. Why can't you do it again?"

"Because I don't remember! It's been, what, a year? What if I make it worse? What if I break her arm? She's so tiny, like you Race." Race slapped Skittery across the face, not amused with the tiny comment.

"Call me tiny again and youse gonna get more than a smack to the face!" He wagged a finger at Skittery. "Come on, Skittery. I'se wouldn't have sent Salvatore if I didn't have a teaspoon of faith in you! Please? She's my sister. What if it was Tumbler?" Skittery turned away from Racetrack and stared out the kitchen window to think. Tumbler was the youngest newsie and Skittery's baby brother. Skittery wasn't the best brother, but he sure as hell tried. He couldn't even imagine what he'd do if something happened to the eight-year-old.

"Alright." He whispered, inwardly kicking himself for letting Racetrack appeal to his moral code. Race's face lit up, and he rushed to the taller boy's side.

"Youse mean it?" Race exclaimed and clapped Skittery on the back. "I'se could kiss you!"

"Please don't." Skittery turned away from the shorter, overly excited boy and walked into the sitting room. He took in his surroundings, letting his anxiety escape him as he sighed.

"Okay, uh, everyone." He unsurely commanded. "I need to see the bone. Katherine, Mrs. Genovese, can you," Skittery exhaled sharply, not wanting to ask the frightening woman for anything, "remove her dress?" Tosca dropped her knitting.

"Young man!" Tosca got up and started towards Skittery. "How _dare_ you come into my house and demand such reprehensible requests!" Skittery held his hands up in surrender.

"This must be where Race got his temper from." He thought sourly.

"Ma'am, please!" Skittery cried, hoping that his death wouldn't be at the hands of the cantankerous, gray-haired woman. "She can keep her underclothes on! I just need to see where the bone is so I can put it back in place!" Tosca stared up at the tall, Hungarian boy. Her brown eyes were squinted, and her jaw clenched. She didn't like strangers and certainly didn't like what this boy was telling her to do.

" _Nonna_ , let him help!" Racetrack interrupted, hoping he could talk some sense into the raging woman. Tosca's eyed her grandson in her peripheral vision, flabbergasted that he called her nonna instead of by her name. Skittery looked down at the fierce woman, his arms still up in surrender.

"Please, ma'am?" He pleaded. Tosca sighed sharply. She knew when she was beaten and maneuvered toward the bed. Skittery let out a sigh of relief and straightened himself up.

"Okay, fellas. We need to get a chair, not a stool. I need her sitting up straight to put her arm back in place." Jack nodded and got the chair Racetrack was sitting in earlier and brought it close to the bed. "Mr. Genovese, do you have any alcohol? She looks like she's in a lot of pain and it will help a lot."

"Young man," Tosca started, causing Skittery to roll his eyes, "This is a Catholic household. I don't allow Stefano to bring in…" Stefano came from the kitchen with a jug of wine and a small cup. "Stefano Genovese! What is this?"

"It's wine, _cara mia_." He replied innocently as he poured the red liquid into the cup. "Will this work, Skittery?" He held the glass up. Skittery shook his head and requested something stronger. Tosca scoffed in disbelief and furiously untied Frannie's dirty pinafore. The Genovese patriarch shrugged, bringing the glass of wine to his lips and drinking it in a single gulp. Racetrack stood out of the way and watched the organized chaos in front of him unfold. Frannie whined in pain as Tosca and Katherine helped her out of her pinafore. Stefano came out from the back bedroom with a handle of whiskey, ignoring the disapproving look from his wife. Skittery nodded in approval.

Racetrack was impressed with the way the usually anxious Skittery was taking charge. Normally, Skittery would be the one in the back making sarcastic comments or challenging whoever was speaking, usually to Jack. But this time the tables were turned. Jack was taking orders from Skittery. Deep down, Racetrack knew Jack was only complying because Katherine was in the room and he'd do anything for the shorter Italian and not because he held Skittery in a higher regard.

"You okay, _polpetto_?" Stefano asked in a low voice, offering a glass of wine to his grandson. Racetrack nodded and gladly took a sip of the bitter, red liquid. "Your friend isn't too bad of a leader, eh?"

"Who Jack? Yeah, he's alright."

"No, no. The tall one. Skittery, was it?" Stefano took a sip of wine from his cup. "He seems to know what he's doing. That's good." Race scoffed and leaned against the bookshelf.

"Yeah, Skitts ain't half bad when you put him to work. Normally he and Specs are wisecrackin' in the back." Racetrack's eyes followed Specs, who was moving the small table by Frannie's bedside to make room for the large, wooden chair. "But I gotta tell ya, for every doubt Skittery's got in himself, he's smart, just don't act like it." Katherine and Tosca carefully removed the faded green dress off of Frannie, leaving the eleven-year-old in her chemise.

"Okay, piccola." Tosca cooed, carefully taking her granddaughter into her arms. "We're going to make you feel all better." Katherine took the pinafore and the dress off of the bed and began to fold it.

"Leave that. Help me get her to sit up straight." Katherine dropped the clothes and climbed over the bed to adjust the whimpering girl.

"Nonna, it hurts." She cried, fat tears rolling down her face. Tosca gently shushed Frannie and wiped her hair out of her face. Skittery poured the whiskey into the glass cup and walked over to Frannie, kneeling so that he was at her eye level, like he would with Tumbler or any of the younger newsies. He also had to watch his language, since he just wasn't talking to a girl, he was talking to Race's kid sister.

"Hey there. How're you feeling?" Skittery asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "My name's Hugo. What's yours?"

"Mary Francesca Higgins." She whimpered. Skittery smiled reassuringly.

"That's an awful long name. Can I call you Frannie instead?" Frannie nodded weakly in response. "Okay, Frannie. I need you to drink this for me. It'll make you feel a little better." He motioned to Tosca to help Frannie hold the glass of whiskey against her lips. Tosca poured a little bit of the liquid down Frannie's throat before Frannie closed her mouth and grimaced at the taste.

"Ugh, what was that?" She scrunched her nose at the bitter taste of the whiskey. Skittery let out a quiet chuckle and took the glass from Tosca.

"I know it didn't taste so good, but you'll get used to it someday." Skittery chuckled. Tosca shot Skittery a warning glance before wiping Frannie's mouth with the end of her apron. "Okay, Frannie. We're going to get that shoulder in place." Frannie looked up at him with her hazel eyes.

"Is it going to hurt?" She asked weakly. Skittery bit his lip and avoided the little girl's gaze. He knew it was going to hurt, but he also didn't want to sugarcoat the truth. It was easy when you were improving the truth to an adult, but it was different when you were in the company of a little girl.

"Well, it's going to make you feel a lot better. How does that sound?" He smiled uneasily. God, he hoped he remembered how to do this.

"Jack! Specs! I need you to hold her steady." Jack and Specs nodded and gently held the small girl against the chair. Frannie whined at Spec's arm against her ribs. Racetrack couldn't take it anymore. He set the glass of wine on the bookshelf and walked over to where Specs was holding Frannie.

"Be careful." He muttered. "She's got a couple of broken ribs." Specs stepped out of Racetrack's way and let the shorter boy hold down his sister.

"Racetrack?" She turned her head towards her brother.

"I'm right here, Fran." He murmured. "Skittery's a good friend of mine. He won't let nothin' happen to you." Racetrack nodded to Skittery, making sure that he kept his word and didn't further damage Frannie's arm.

"Thanks, bonehead." She whispered, giving her older brother a soft smile.

"Okay, are you ready Frannie?" Skittery asked, meeting the smaller girl's eyes. Frannie nodded. Skittery grasped the inside of Frannie's elbow with one hand and her wrist in the other. Beads of sweat covered his furrowed brow, and his eyes were set on the loose arm in his hands.

Frannie hissed in pain as Skittery moved her arm and rotated her palm so that it was facing the kitchen window. Racetrack felt his heart drop into his stomach as Frannie whimpered in his ear. The last thing he wanted to was throw up on Tosca's beloved rug.

"Okay, Frannie. You're doing great." Skittery mumbled. "Specs! Get me a cloth or somethin' for her to bite down on." Specs nodded and wrung out the cloth Tosca used to clean Frannie's face with earlier.

"Will this work?" He asked, putting the damp cloth in Skittery's face.

"Yeah, now get that damn thing out of my face!" He exclaimed. Specs rolled up the cloth and placed it in front of Frannie.

"Bite down on this Frannie." Specs gently commanded. Frannie did as she was told and Specs put the wet cloth in her mouth.

"This part's gonna hurt the worst, kid, so if you gotta scream, scream into that," Skittery muttered to the little Italian girl. Frannie nodded her head and braced herself for the pain. Skittery used the leverage he had on her wrist and her elbow, carefully moving the arm to where it crossed her chest and her palm touched her other shoulder.

Without warning, Skittery swiftly pushed the arm back into its place with a gut-clenching snap of the cartilage. Frannie screamed into the towel, hot tears streaming down her face. Racetrack looked over at Frannie's formerly dislocated shoulder. It was bruised, but it Skittery had done his job, and the bone was back in place. Frannie spat out the rag and wiggled her fingers on her injured arm. To her surprise, the movements of her hand didn't cause her any pain.

Racetrack and Jack let go of Frannie, seeing that she was okay. Everyone in the room let out a sigh they had been holding in, relieved that the youngest Higgins sibling wasn't in pain.

"Well, that's over." Skittery grumbled. "Hey, Race. Do ya got the time."

"It's time for you to get a watch." Racetrack joked, a smirk gracing his lips. Katherine scoffed half-heartedly.

"It's time for you to get a new comeback." She retorted. Jack and Specs laughed at Katherine's witty comeback. Jack kissed her on the cheek and beamed with pride at his girlfriend's sharp wit. Race chuckled and ran a hand through his greasy hair.

"Well, if you must know, it's ten o'clock, and all is well." He smirked, letting a few crooked teeth peek through. Stefano walked over to the teenagers and shook their hands, thanking them for helping Frannie out.

"Naw, it's nothing." Jack put an arm around Katherine. "We'd do anything to help Race." Stefano laughed and twirled his mustache.

"I'm glad my grandson has such good friends." He chuckled. "The four of you are always welcome in my bookstore and my home." Tosca stood and walked to where Skittery was standing. Skittery had a reasonable fear of the older Italian woman and felt his stomach drop and the color drain from his face. Tosca put a hand to the Hungarian boy's cheek and kissed it, causing Jack and Specs to jeer at him until Katherine hit them both in the stomach.

"You're a good man, even if you got piccola mia to drink." She patted the cheek where she kissed him. "We're having fettuccine tomorrow, and I'll be horribly offended if I don't see you there." Skittery smiled bashfully, his fear of the older woman dissipating, and nodded.

"I'll walk youse guys outside." Racetrack piped up, grabbed his coat, and began to walk out with the group of teenagers." Frannie looked at him with worried eyes. "I'll come back, Frannie. I'se just walking them outside." Racetrack looked back at his grandparents and smiled. "I promise." Stefano nodded and placed a key in Racetrack's hand.

"So you can get back in." He winked. Racetrack nodded and followed his friends out the door. The group was silent as they walked away from the apartment. As soon as they were out of earshot, Jack spoke up.

"You'se got a nice family there, Race." He commented, his arm slung around Katherine. Racetrack nodded and chewed on his lip.

"Yeah, they ain't too bad." Race muttered. "Don't mean I'll stop bein' a newsie, though." Specs clapped him on the back and Skittery gave him a small smile. For the first time all day, Race felt comfortable and completely at ease. Not that he didn't feel comfortable around his grandparents, but it was a different kind of comfort. There was a familiar comfort that came with the newsboys. He'd known Jack since the self-proclaimed cowboy was thrown in the refuge and called the Duane Street Lodging House his home for six years.

"Don't give up a hot meal and warm bed for us, you bum." Jack pushed Racetrack playfully. "Who else is gonna invite us to dinner?" Jack pulled out a cigar from his pocket and placed it in Racetrack's palm. "Youse looks like youse could use one. I hate it when you chews on your thumb like that." Racetrack greedily stuck the cigar in his mouth and lit it with a match he swiped from the rooftop table. The group reached stoop of the apartment and braced themselves against the cold.

"Thanks again, youse guys." He took the cigar from his lips and spat in his hand, extending it to Jack. Jack removed his arm from Katherine's neck and repeated the action, and the two newsies shook on it. Skittery and Specs followed suit and copied Jack, shaking his hand. Katherine grimaced and groaned in disgust.m

"Boys are gross." She grumbled, shaking her head at Jack, who shrugged in response with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Carryin' the banner?" Jack asked.

"Carryin' the banner." Racetrack responded and watched his friends walk off into the cold, November night. Racetrack turned around and walked back into the warmth of the building, feeling slightly guilty. He knew that Jack, Specs, and Skittery had to sleep in a drafty lodging house while he got to sleep in a warm apartment. As Racetrack puffed his cigar, he contemplated following his friends but remembered his promise to his family that he'd return. He noticed Salvatore sleeping outside of his apartment and nudged him with his boot, causing the smaller boy to wake with a start.

"Shouldn't you be in your apartment?" Racetrack pointed his cigar at the smaller boy. Salvatore yawned and stood up.

"Is Francesca okay?" He asked tiredly. Racetrack took another puff of his cigar and nodded.

"Yeah, now go to bed. Your ma's probably worried about you." Salvatore nodded and walked back to his apartment. Racetrack shook his head.

"Crazy kid." He muttered through his cigar as he unlocked the front door. He opened the door the see Stefano shaking hands with a well-dressed man, who he summed was the doctor.

"I'll come back in a couple of weeks to remove the sling and the splint." The doctor murmured as he scribbled prescriptions down on a pad of paper. "In the meantime, I suggest you keep her home from school so her ribs can heal properly." The doctor swiftly tore off the prescription from the pad and placed it in Stefano's hand.

" _Grazie_ , doc." Stefano took the man's hand. He noticed Racetrack close the door and turned to him.

"This is my grandson, the one who helped put Francesca's arm back in place." The doctor took Racetrack's hand and shook it. Racetrack didn't particularly like this doctor. His handshake felt like he was holding a dead fish and his hair was slicked back in the most obnoxious way.

"That was a very courageous thing you did young man." The doctor said. Racetrack shrugged. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off. I do hope you find those three dollars, Mr. Genovese." The doctor remarked as he put on his coat. Stefano twirled his mustache, eyeing the doctor as prepared to leave.

"Si. Me too." He commented. The doctor nodded his head and left the apartment. Stefano sighed and turned to Racetrack, clapping his grandson on the back.

"Well, that was quite a day, polpetto." He chuckled. Racetrack chewed on his cigar and nodded. "You must be exhausted, eh?" Stefano led him into the spare bedroom where Tosca was making up another bed. Frannie was fast asleep, probably from the morphine, the doctor gave her.

"No, no, no, Nonna." Racetrack rushed over to his grandmother and gently took the pillows from her. "Youse don't has to do that for me." Nonna sized her grandson up and smirked.

"Ashtray's in the drawer. This is the only time I'll let you smoke in here, _polpetto_." She said, jerking her thumb towards the drawer. "Now get some rest. You have work to do." Racetrack cocked his head, confused at what his grandmother meant.

"What are you talking about?" He inquired. Stefano and Tosca looked at each other and smiled softly.

"Well you're a newsboy, aren't you? Newsboy's sell papers, eh?" Racetrack beamed so hard; he thought his face would split in half. His greatest fear was lifted from his shoulders.

"Youse means you're gonna let me go back to work?" His grandparents nodded.

"Get some rest, _polpetto_." Tosca kissed her grandson on the forehead. "You have a big day tomorrow." Stefano clapped Racetrack on the back and walked out of the room with Tosca. Racetrack fluffed his pillows and got out the ashtray. He took off his boots and his pants, leaving him in his long johns, shirt, and socks, and spread the quilt over his lap. He fondly remembered this quilt. When Mama was alive, the whole family, including Stefano and Tosca, would go to Central Park for a picnic. Racetrack took a drag from his cigar, hoping the tobacco would help him sleep. That memory didn't make him sad, like before, but caused a sense of dread in the boy.

In the past twenty-four hours, he made up with the beautiful, albeit bossy, Dixie Davis, was found by Stefano, and proved his worth to his family in front of his friends. He felt guilty that Jack, Skittery, and Specs had to sleep in a drafty lodging house when he got to sleep in a warm bed, with a quilt no less. He felt his eyelids drooping and extinguished the cigar, letting sleep take over.

* * *

 **Yay! This arc of the story is finished! Now I can focus on Dixie and Race.**

 **Peace out y'all and remember to leave a review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**I'd like to start this chapter off by saying thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed. A HUGE thanks to Joker is Poker with a J for the support during my bout of writer's block.**

 **Newsies isn't mine, but my own characters are.**

* * *

"Dixie! He's the most wonderful man I've ever met!" Sarah gushed to her friend. The two young women braced themselves against the cold, New York morning. It had been their ritual since Sarah moved into Eugenia's House for Young Ladies. She and Dixie would walk to the bakery and exchange gossip about the other girls in the boarding house, then after a day of work they'd walk back together and exchange more gossip. "He's tall and his eyes remind me of a summer sky! And he's so intelligent! I could listen to him talk all day!" The brown haired girl pulled her father's coat closer to her body and beamed from ear to ear.

"Sarah Jacobs, you hardly even know the boy!" Dixie chided her brunette friend. "Although, he is quite handsome." She blew on her hands to warm them and adjusted the wool mittens she made. Sarah hooked her arm around Dixie's and giggled like a school girl.

"Have you ever met someone who makes you weak at the knees when you're around them?" She sighed and leaned her head on Dixie's shoulder as they walked. Dixie laughed sharply and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her thoughts drifted to a certain, dark haired newsboy and the tips of her ears grew hot

"N-no. I don't believe I have." She stuttered, trying to mask her attraction. Sarah glanced up at her friend and scoffed, not believing her lie.

"Dix, have I ever told you how bad you are at lying?" Sarah smirked, playfully nudging her shorter friend. Dixie smiled uncomfortably as Sarah poked her.

"You have a thing for Race, don't you?" Sarah prodded, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Dixie pushed her away and walked a little faster. She did not like being accused of lying and she certainly did not like being poked at like a mare in heat.

"I do not, Sarah Jacobs! How dare you insinuate such a thing!" She crossed her arms and frowned. Sarah ran to catch up with the annoyed blonde and hooked arms with her.

"Don't lie to yourself! It's obvious you have a little crush on him!" Sarah grinned at her annoyed friend. "You've been talking about him since the day you met him!" Sarah lightly pushed her blonde haired friend. "Oh Sarah! _"_ Sarah mimicked Dixie's southern drawl. "I don't know if I want to kill him or kiss him all over his— "

"Shh!" Dixie placed a hand over Sarah's mouth. "That is not something a lady says in public!" She chided her friend. Sarah wiggled out of Dixie's grasp, a broad smile still spread on her face like jam on toast.

"Then why did you say it in the first place?" She replied playfully, causing her to receive a glare from Dixie. " _Oh Racetrack!"_ Sarah mocked Dixie again as she skipped ahead of the shorter blonde. "You make me feel all warm and _…tingly_!" She dramatically placed her hand on her forehead and jutted out her hip.

"Sarah!" Dixie gasped and ran after Sarah, who managed to move out of the fuming blonde's way. The bitter cold whipped their faces as they ran, the two feeling like they were carefree children once again.

It was true; as much as Dixie tried to deny her feelings for the Italian newsboy, she couldn't help but turn pink whenever his crooked smile crept into her thoughts. Sometimes, when she was kneading dough, her thoughts would wander to the first time she saw him. The Atlantian was chasing after Frannie, who cunningly deceived her by pretending to not know English, and saw how Racetrack's face softened at Frannie's fear of getting caught. Even when he was yelling at her for shooing Frannie away like a barn cat, she felt a spark of attraction at the way he looked out and protected her. It also helped that out of all the newsboys she'd seen in Manhattan, he was the most dapper, with his outrageous plaid vest and charcoal colored hat.

But she knew a relationship with him would never work.

If she told him how she felt, she knew he'd quickly reject her and her admission of infatuation would only boost his, already inflated, ego. She saw how it was with Sarah and Jack. She claimed she was fine after their break up and seemed friendly enough with Katherine, but she didn't want to be whispered about among the newsboys. Dixie's conscious would then promptly remind her that Anthony was a lowlife tramp and she was a lady of high society. Or at least she used to be.

Sarah immediately stopped running, which created the perfect opportunity for Dixie to grab her from behind.

"Gotcha!" She grabbed Sarah's waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. "Now, what were you sayin' about…" Her voice trailed off as she noticed the destruction in front of them. Sarah's eyes were as wide as saucers and a hand covered her mouth. Dixie was frozen in place and felt the color drain from her face. She felt her arms go limp and stood beside the tall, Jewish girl in shock.

* * *

"I hate December." Racetrack grumbled, stuffing his hands under his armpits. The boys around him groaned in annoyance. Racetrack whipped his head to look at all of them. "What? What are youse all moanin' about?" Skittery, Jack, and Blink took a long drag of their cigarettes. Swifty was leaning against the brick wall of the distribution center counting the laces in his shoes.

"Look, Race, buddy," Blink clapped a hand on the shorter boy's shoulder, a couple of fingers sticking out of the worn gloves he wore. "We'se missed you around the lodgin' house, really we'se did." Blink took a drag of his cigarette, cherishing the little warmth it provided.

"But we'se didn't miss your bitchin' about the cold." Jack chimed in, causing the other boys around him to erupt into fits of laughter. Racetrack grumbled something in Italian and glared at his friends. David and Les joined the group of newsboys on the platform and worked their way into their circle of warmth.

"So, Race," David started, rubbing his hands together. "Jack tells me you have some family in the city." Racetrack dug a cigar from his pocket and struck a match. He glared at Jack through his peripheral vision and shoved him.

"Cowboy's got a big mouth." He scoffed. "Almost bigger than yours, David." This caused the rest of the boys, Les included, to jeer at David, who laughed it off and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Jack smiled and shoved Racetrack back, almost causing him to lose his cigar.

"C'mon, Race. Youse never brags about your folks, so someone's got to." Skittery took a pull of his cigarette, stuffing a hand into his pocket. Race rolled his eyes. It had been two weeks since the shoulder incident, as Frannie called it. Tosca, as hard hearted as she was, took a rare liking to the Manhattan newsboys and would make extra rolls for Race to bring with him to the distribution center. She had especially taken a liking to Tumbler, who she said was too thin and needed more ravioli.

"Speaking of your folks, how's the kid doin'?" Jack asked, leaning up against the brick wall.

"She's in a hell of a lot of trouble, Jack." He muttered. "Youse know why she got beat up right?" Jack nodded and the other boys leaned in to hear Race's family troubles. "Well, for her initiation into the O'Malley gang, she had to bring them three dollars." Jack and Blink whistled and inhaled the tobacco from their cigarettes. Three dollars for a measly initiation was definitely pushing it. "And guess where she got the money from? Nonno and Nonna's savings." Racetrack took a pull from his cigar in frustration.

"How'd your folks take it?" David asked curiously.

"She's gotta earn back the money by working in the shop." He mumbled through his cigar.

"Sheesh!" Mush exclaimed. "She got off easy! If she was on the streets, she'd be in the refuge, for sure!" The boys hummed in agreement as they shuffled forward with the line. All of them had been prisoners of the refuge at least once in their young lives, excluding David and Les. The refuge was no place for a child, especially a girl as feisty and hot headed as Frannie.

"I mean, Gia came out okay, right Swifty?" Blink nudged the tall Chinese boy suggestively. Swifty shoved Blink and glowered at him before staring at his shoes again. Blink stepped away from the cranky boy and rejoined his group of friends.

"Jack! David!" A voice broke the silence of the distribution center. The aforementioned boys whipped their heads towards the sound. It was Sarah. Her cheeks were flushed and strands of hair were falling out of her bun. David was the first one to jump off the platform and run to his twin sister, Jack following close behind.

"Sarah! What's wrong?" David interrogated her. "Are you hurt." Sarah huffed and puffed trying to catch her breath.

"I'm all right." She coughed from the harsh cold entering her lungs. "I-It's the bakery." Swifty and Race's ears perked up and turned their heads towards Sarah. David held Sarah's arms to hold her up.

"What's wrong with the bakery?" David asked.

"I can't." She let out a hoarse cough. "You have to come with me." Racetrack jumped off the platform and advanced over to Sarah.

"I'll go." He offered. If Sarah ran all the way from the bakery to the distribution center, something had to be wrong. Swifty jumped off the platform and stood by the shorter Italian boy.

"I'm going too." He said defiantly. Sarah placed her hands on his chest and shook her head.

"Swifty, you should stay here." She looked up at him with pleading eyes. Swifty pushed Sarah out of the way and stormed towards the bakery. David started after Swifty to make him apologize for the way he handled his sister, but Jack held him back.

"Like hell I am." He grumbled.

 **I'm so excited to delve more into Dixie's character! And what happened to the bakery? And is Gia okay?**


	12. Chapter 12

**Sit back and relax; it's a long one.**

 **Also, there's some racially charged insults in here, so fair warning.**

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Racetrack's mouth fell open at the shocking sight of the bakery and removed his hat. The large windows that allowed passersby to see the beautiful pastries were shattered, leaving only jagged edges around the frame. The worst part were the ugly, yellow slurs painting the door and wallpaper inside the shop. Dixie was inside sweeping the glass off the floor, her beautiful face crestfallen and her usual glimmer dull. The red-haired girl was at the cash register counting the notes and coins that remained in the copper machine. Detective Spinelli, Gia's adoptive father, paced the shop in a slow, trance-like fashion.

"Dixie and I found it like this when we arrived this morning," Sarah muttered. Swifty walked carefully to the door and traced his fingers over the painted atrocities. Racetrack read the slurs and felt anger boil within him.

Chink.

Yellow whore.

Wop's legs open for business.

Swifty threw down his hat in and punched the nearby wall, causing Sarah and Dixie to jump. The Chinese boy scowled at the brick wall, hot, angry tears ran down his face. Racetrack was frozen in shock as he stared at the damage done. Gia put everything into this bakery. Ever since Mrs. Spinelli died, Gia took it upon herself to run the business in her adoptive mother's place. Before their falling out, Gia would gush over her ambitions for the family-owned bakery and would force Race to try out a new recipe every so often.

Racetrack's gaze drifted to the Detective, who ran a hand through his thinning, brown hair. His heart broke for the Detective too. Detective Joe Spinelli was one of the few father figures Racetrack had in his life. He was alright, for a bull. The Detective, as Racetrack called him, gave the Italian boy his old clothes and a usual place to sleep in exchange for keeping out of trouble or a racing tip, whatever the pepper haired man felt necessary.

Swifty angrily stormed into the shop, almost knocking Dixie over, and almost made his way to the stairs, before the Detective stopped him.

"She needs time, Ben." He muttered, placing a hand on his chest.

"She needs _me_." He choked. "This is my fault, Detective Spinelli. If it weren't for me— "

"No, no." The Detective muttered. "I told her to be careful." He sighed sharply and rubbed his jawline. "She hasn't left her room for a few hours. Maybe you can get her to come out." Swifty didn't have to be told twice as he ran up the stairs as if his pants were on fire. The Detective followed Swifty with his eyes and threaded a hand through his hair again.

Racetrack walked into the shop and gawked at the state of the shop.

"Racetrack." The Detective noticed the young Italian boy and started toward him to shake his hand. "It's good to see you, son." Racetrack took the older man's hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Wish I could've come on better circumstances, sir." They let go of each other's hands, and Racetrack dug in his pocket for a cigarette.

"Here, I got one." The Detective mumbled as he fished out a cigarette and lit it for the dark haired newsboy. Racetrack murmured thanks and inhaled the relaxing tobacco deeply.

"Guess I don't need an explanation to what happened here." Racetrack mumbled through his cigarette. The Detective sighed and folded his arms over his chest.

"I told Gia to be careful when she was with Ben." He replied. Racetrack assumed Ben was Swifty's real name. The boys never asked each other their real names unless one of them told them. The only people who knew _his_ real name were Jack, Skittery, and Kloppman, for legal reasons. "Someone must have seen them together and decided to take matters into their own hands." The Detective placed his hat on his head and picked up his coat from off the remains of a table.

"I should go to work. I'll see if I can get one of the boys at the station to look into this." He muttered and walked sadly out of the shop. Racetrack let out a breath he'd been holding in for a while. The overall mood of the bakery was gloomy and depressing. Swifty still hadn't come downstairs, although he could have heard the sound of glass breaking. He figured Gia must have thrown something at him.

The sound of glass rubbing against the floor broke Racetrack out of his thoughts. Dixie was sweeping the bits of glass into little piles. Racetrack walked over toward her, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Hey, Dixie." He said. She looked up at him and smiled softly at him. "How youse holding up?" Racetrack adjusted his hat and chewed on his cigarette. Dixie sighed and stopped sweeping, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and placing a hand on her hip.

"I'll be alright." Her voice was like a bell, soft and sweet. "I'm just worried about Gia. Sarah and I haven't seen her all morning."

"Yeah, me too." He muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Can I'se helps you clean up? I'se wouldn't want your hands to get cut." He motioned his cigarette towards the piles of glass. Dixie scoffed and returned to her sweeping.

"I'm not going to pick them up with my hands, goober." She muttered. Racetrack gave her a suspicious look.

"What'd youse just call me?" Dixie scoffed and gave him a spirited look in return. The corners of her eyes crinkled and she pursed her lips.

"Goober? You know, silly?"

"Then why didn't youse just say silly?" He took another drag of his cigarette, giving her a puzzled look.

"Are you going to help me or not?" She placed her hand on her hips and gave him an impatient glare. "There's a dust pan in the supply closet." She pointed in the direction pf the closet. "And use an old sack of flour to put the glass in."

Racetrack gave her a mock salute and went to the supply closet to get the dust pan, brushing past Sarah, who was helping the redheaded girl do an inventory of their supplies. He could feel Sarah's eyes on him as he walked into the dark supply closet. Shaking the feeling off, he grabbed the dustpan that was hanging on a nail in the supply closet and picked up an old flour sack off of the floor. He inspected it, making sure there weren't any holes in and walked out, the dustpan and flour sack in one hand and the cigarette on his lips.

Race hardly noticed Swifty coming down the stairs from Gia's apartment until the taller boy ran into him, barely causing him to lose his cigarette.

"Watch where you're going, Swifty!" Race exclaimed, brushing himself off. Swifty nodded absentmindedly and walked past the shorter Italian boy without a second glance. Swifty was off. Typically, the tall, Chinese boy was smiling and swinging on lampposts and flirting with anything in a skirt. But up until a few weeks ago, he'd become silent and kept to himself. Sarah walked over to Race and watched the taller newsboy skeptically as he left the bakery. Race took a drag of his cigarette and pursed his lips.

"Is it me, or is he different somehow?" Race asked.

"I wouldn't know. Swifty hasn't been by the shop in a couple weeks." Sarah placed a hand on her hip and blew a strand of hair out of her face. Racetrack hummed and inhaled the smoke from his cigarette again.

"So, you're not selling your papes today?" She asked coyly, her eyes darting to Racetrack, who was entranced by the blonde in the front room, who was humming "My Wild Irish Rose."

"I'll catch the afternoon edition." He said dreamily, before catching himself and glowering at the taller girl. "Don't get any ideas, Jacobs." He motioned his cigarette towards her.

"What ideas, Race?" She smiled innocently.

"Youse a dangerous matchmaker, you know that?" Racetrack jabbed his cigarette at her. It was true. Sarah was a natural observer. The tall brunette liked to sit back and soak in her environment and notice the little quirks about people others would overlook. For example, Sarah immediately noticed Katherine's passion for her work and sense of justice when she tagged along with her brothers to one of Medda's shows. She also noticed how immune the red-haired reporter was to her ex-boyfriend's flirtations. It was perfect. After a little convincing on her part, Katherine and Jack began dating.

Sarah beamed with pride at Race's accusation. "Don't keep her waiting, Race." She said as she sauntered back to the frail, redheaded girl. Race rolled his eyes, took the dustpan and flour sack, and shuffled into the front of the bakery.

Dixie continued to sweep the shards of glass into dainty little piles in the time Racetrack was gone. They looked like the sand dunes out on Coney Island, nice and pristine little hills that glistened in the sun. Dixie glanced away from her sweeping momentarily to look at Racetrack, but quickly returned to her cleaning.

"Let me finish getting these darned shards tidied up before we dispose of them." She said. Racetrack placed the dustpan and flour sack on the counter next to the register. He threw off his brown coat and leaned back on the mahogany counter. Dixie almost seemed to dance around the front of the bakery as she cleared the glass into their little dunes. It was as if she was a princess and the broom was her prince, whisking her around the ballroom. Dixie must have noticed Racetrack's gaze and broke the silence.

"So," she started awkwardly, "Why do they call you Racetrack?" Race laughed sharply and dug a hand in his pants pocket.

"It's a long story."

"I think we have a little time, sugar." Dixie glanced at him from her peripheral vision as she continued to sweep. Race took a drag of his cigarette and rested his arms on the counter behind him.

"When I'se was a kid, not much older than Frannie, I'se would spend most of my money out at Sheepshead Races." He stared off into the distance, his smirk revealing his crooked teeth. "One day, I got a little too ambitious and blew a whole day's earnings on this one horse." He waved his hands for emphasis, causing Dixie to smile. "Man, was I in trouble. I was still new at the lodging house and didn't realize you could pay in advance. I wasn't too smart."

"Nothing has changed, I see." Dixie smiled playfully at Racetrack, who gave her a dirty look in return.

"Anyways, I didn't want to sleep on the streets, and I didn't have anywhere else to go, so I walked back to the lodging house. By the time I got back, the lantern lighters had already finished for the night." He paused to take a drag of his cigarette. "So along comes Jack 'The Cowboy' Kelly. Youse might run into him eventually."

"I've heard stories from Sarah." She muttered bitterly.

"So Cowboy sees me walkin' up, all defeated and glum and pays my board for the night. And he told me, and I'll never forget this, 'you spend so much time at Sheepshead, we might as well call you race track.'" Racetrack cackled at the memory, his hand resting on his stomach. Dixie bit her lower lip and smiled skeptically at the hooting boy in front of her.

"I don't see what's so funny." She said, returning to her sweeping. Race eventually calmed himself down and wiped a tear from his eyes.

"Okay Ms. Humorless," He put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "Why do they call you Dixie?" Dixie froze and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Come on, your mother didn't just name you Dixie out of the blue, huh?" Dixie continued to sweep, trying to think up a believable story.

"Well, I don't have some elaborate story like you do. Um, my Great Aunt Eugenia calls me Dixie because of my accent!" She remembered pointing her finger in the air. "Yes, that's right! My Aunt Eugenia calls me Dixie, and it's just easier for other people to call me Dixie."

Racetrack looked at her suspiciously, not believing her story for a second. But who was he to judge? He wasn't going to pry into her personal life. Like he always said, if it didn't concern him it wasn't his problem. Racetrack harrumphed and brought the dustpan over to Dixie.

"As pretty as your piles of glass are, I don't think Gia would take too kindly to a bunch of glass on the floor."

Racetrack and Dixie worked for another hour, occasionally exchanging conversation. If Dixie weren't deep in thought, she would have been over the moon that Racetrack stayed and helped her. Her green eyes would sporadically drift to the obnoxious, yellow slurs defaming the wall of the bakery. Sure, she'd seen stuff like this in Atlanta, but it was geared towards blacks, and she learned to turn a blind eye to the racism. She had never met an Asian before she moved to New York and was disgusted with the way they were treated. Mostly because she grew to care for Swifty as a friend. She admired the way he cared for Gia and how he would drop anything for her at a moment's notice. He was handy at the bakery, fixing hinges on broken doors painting signs and even lifting heavy loads for the Detective and Gia. He was Gia's knight in shining armor, like in the books she would read as a little girl. In a way, she envied the way the dark haired girl held Swifty's attention. His soft brown eyes would fall under her and would hang on to every word that came out of her feisty mouth. Dixie could only pray that she would find someone as kind and loving as Benjamin "Swifty the Rake" Tao.

Which made the slurs painted and yellow all the more hurtful. Because she knew how kind and funny Swifty was and how he loved Gia, it caused her stomach to do cartwheels when she saw the damage done when she and Sarah walked out this morning.

"How could someone do something like this, Racetrack?" She whispered, trying to choke back a sob. "Why do people have to hate like this?" Racetrack looked up at her from his place on the floor, surprised at her insightfulness.

"Well it's New York," he replied flatly, running a hand through his hair. "There are these people called nationalists. They think that just because they were born here, they can treat us immigrants like dirt." Racetrack clenched his jaw trying to control himself from saying something he would regret later. He saw the way people would look at him on the streets. He was lucky. He had dark hair and dark eyes that were common among Italians, but every summer he would gain another freckle on his pale face, and his dark hair would turn a dark, coppery color, causing people to give him sideward glances as he sold his papes. He wasn't exactly Italian, but he wasn't exactly Irish either. He only wished that Frannie didn't experience the same sideward glances he got.

"But why?" Dixie asked, sweeping a little harsher than before. "Why do they feel like they have that power?"

"You tell me. Don't white folks in the South do that to blacks all the time?" He asked, giving Dixie a curious glance.

"Yes, _other_ people do. But I don't. I never have." She turned her head away from him. "The woman who raised me was black." She quickly shut her mouth at the admission, hoping she didn't give too much away about herself. A tense silence filled the bakery, except for the sounds of shuffling the kitchen.

"Was your mother not around?" Race moved to another glass pile and held it behind the delicate pile.

"If it's all right with you, I'd rather not talk about it." She hoped he would stop asking. Racetrack scoffed and smiled crookedly.

"Now you know I feel when youse been nosy." Dixie laughed for the first time all day. Racetrack never knew how beautiful a laugh could be until he heard hers. It was like the church bells at St. Patrick's or a soft, night breeze. Racetrack smiled, chuckling along with the blonde above him.

Eventually, the two finished cleaning the floor the bakery. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than before. Racetrack tied the ends of the flour sack together before throwing it over the jagged edges of the front window, onto the street. Race checked his pocket watch for the time after Dixie put the broom away.

"Look," he said as he stood up adjusting his hat and rolling his sleeves down to his wrists. "I have to go get the afternoon edition. Will you be all right by yourself?" Dixie smiled and went behind the counter, resting her elbows on the smooth surface.

"Yes, I'll be okay. Juliette and I will scrub those awful things off of the wall." She smiled softly. "Thank you for helping me though, I like spending time with you." She replied softly. Race's heart began to flutter, and a toothy grin spread across his face.

"Yeah," he said trying to keep from sounding too excited. "I like spending time with youse too." He went over to a chair and grab his coat. "Oh, if you'd like we can go to Sheepshead races in Brooklyn." He asked hopefully. "I have some business to do there anyways. Frannie got herself in a little bit of trouble, so I have to go take care of it."

"Well," she started turning towards him, "I don't want to intrude on your business, but I do like a good horse race. Let me know when you want to go." Racetrack nodded and left the shop. As soon as Racetrack was out of sight and earshot, Dixie leaned against the wall and slid down, a smile as wide as the Atlantic Ocean spread across her face.

"He likes me!" She squealed as she pulled her knees to her chest as soon as she hit the floor.

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 **They're cute.**

 **So, what do y'all think about another story focused on Swifty and Gia? WordyAF said how much she loved Gia and I think a story revolving around her would be cool too.**

 **Reviews are much obliged.**


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